She’s working the night shift
In conditions unlikely to be seen outside
Of a bad film script
Where the protagonist
Is exploited by a despicable despot
And the plot
Is so unrealistic
That the audience walk out.
But unfortunately it’s true
And she having to do work unfit for kids
Who used to sweep chimney flues,
Or scrape coal from a hole in the ground,
And I can’t stand the thought
Of her been
Squeezed into the story
She finds herself in.
It doesn’t sit well with me
That I haven’t yet lifted her clear
Of the crowded South
She’s found herself floundering in,
But give me a mystery writer’s insight
And I’ll pen her a suitable ending
Where the sunset beckons
From a seat to the East of her grievance.