She felt so foolish in her garnished skirt and boots,
Walking heel to toe, heel, toe, and turn.
Waiting for a kindly spirit from some faraway land,
To fly her away by the wing they took her under..
Lemonade and snickerdoodles weren't her idea of a home-life.
But you know, neither were her curls.
Living a life traced out in the dust before her,
She precariously placed her steps in the prints of her mother,
For fear of being the neighborhood epitaph,
And for fear of falling,
Which so often occured to little girls with boots and curls,
When they tried to wander into something bigger.
