Let me tell you about Jenny, just a little tale I heard.
How the best of intentions don’t make a difference in the world
when you're half drunk and half dead
and up since last Thursday.
I can’t tell you how she got there -
it’s illegal, but don’t worry.
She made a decision to change things, so never you mind.
Now she’s limping and shouting and bleeding
from over her eye.
She’s busted up and smiling and you
can’t make her singing stop.
She’s dusted some bad guys and ain’t stopping till she’s popped.
Now Margie may be homeless or just
right at home on the street.
She’d been losing her hearing since the
bombs turned on repeat.
So she’s waiting for the PTSD to hit her in her perch.
‘Cause there's no stopping, poppin’ pills like tic-tac’s in church.
So yeah, there’s guns and bullets and wrath,
and yeah, Jenny and Margie are from different ends of a path.
But come morning they’ll both be free of the war
and sleeping in a gutter or smoking some tar.
And the sex might be better if either one cared
but nobody’s counting when soccer moms have been spared.
So don’t be mad if they’re out there getting it done.
The monsters aren’t hunting since they can’t no longer run.
And your life’s been saved and your kids are fine,
so don’t you pay Margie and Jenny no mind
if they’re making a ruckus, a couple chicks making light,
‘cause the death won’t stop if no one’s willing to fight.
Lucidity Lamb 