Don’t forget to fluff the pillow before you lower her to her grave

Just another one of the many that nobody bothered to save

She’s another sad statistic; a thirteen year old whore

On the street three years now, cause momma don’t care no more

Was she maybe a mathematical genius? The world will never know

Lay her to rest with a single rose, stone marked “Little Lady Doe”

.. ..

A six year old stands at his window, his momma weeping on the bed

Worry lines crease her beautiful face, with a million thoughts racing through her head

“Don’t worry about the gunshots, momma” The little boy has learned to say

They’re nothing new in a world like ours. I hear them almost every day

He says that maybe they should get a gun so they won’t worry anymore

Cause he knows you can’t just wish it away, the shots are too loud to ignore

.. ..

He stands by the window all night long, and all night his mother cries

Anticipation thick in the air as they lay in wait for their demise

An old man’s cardboard box is home, he can see the whole city from here

Sleep and he no longer pursue each other; hyper vigilance long ago replaced his fear

He knew Jane Doe, he watches out for the boy. All the city’s secrets he keeps

.. ..

He says “Whatever” to the old “You are what you eat”

Baby, you are where you sleep