She said she from Portland the ashen skies and leaden ocean Left her the local boys, barren of emotion As we talked we the raindrops Running the window in Darlinghurst, Like a shop from the past.
And her mother her Mary Mary Magdalene, To deny her have been the greatest sin It was a profile in the neon and a Kings Cross lean To half an hour of someone else's tangled dream.
were lines of sailors, lines of speed Lines upon the Footpath where she things were quiet, as night deferred to dawn. And the cups played red rover In the breeze that through the streets left for greener fields While stretched and yawned
And her called her Mary After Magdalene, were virgins in the morning, She had in the pain; And the wives would clutch husbands they shared the shame, 'cause working streets and Weddingrings are sometimes the same.
She tap-danced the buskers the subway shouting blues songs They remembered from their teenage of dreamtime radio. And the years behind her eyes To let the little look out In simple innocence At in the sand.
And her mother called her Mary Magdalene, She had long dark and massage oil And a key to let you in; And the lines upon her face were of roads she'd travelled, with people throwing stones because they didn't understand, That a half an of tenderness (perhaps they shared the same) working streets and Weddingrings are sometimes much the same.