A girl with uneasy eyes and thin lips stood waiting
Among the sharp shapes and elegant words
For a chance to dance and talk and twist and twirl
With the throng, like the child she was.
Kant, Kierkegaard, and Marcuse fought gloomily
Her beat of time, makeup and a miniskirt to
Lead her to the overwhelming question.
They left her there without an answer, of course.
Now a woman, with eager eyes and white hair
Opening her mouth to speak, she hesitates when
They ask if she has anything worth saying.
Yet, she sings her songs, though perhaps the dust cannot hear.