She said she from Portland Where the skies and leaden ocean Left her like the local boys, barren of As we talked we watched the Running the window in Darlinghurst, Like a fish from the past.
And her mother her Mary Mary Magdalene, To her beauty have been the greatest sin It was a in the neon and a Kings Cross Doorway lean To half an hour of tending else's tangled dream.
There were lines of sailors, of speed Lines upon the Footpath she stared When things were quiet, as night to dawn. And the coke cups red rover In the breeze scuttled through the streets Taxies left for greener While Sydney stretched and
And her mother her Mary After Magdalene, There were in the morning, She had sisters in the And the wives would clutch husbands Perhaps shared the shame, 'cause working streets and are sometimes much the same.
She tap-danced the buskers Near the subway shouting songs They from their teenage years of dreamtime radio. And the withdrew behind her eyes To let the little look out In simple childish At in the sand.
And her mother called her After Magdalene, She had dark hair and massage oil And a key to let you in; And the lines upon her face maps of roads she'd travelled, Lined with people stones because they didn't understand, That a half an hour of tenderness (perhaps shared the same) working streets and Weddingrings are sometimes much the same.