By dean friedman

The shopping bag ladies, they live in the terminal waiting room,
Patiently whiling their hours away,
Desperately keeping their demons at bay,
Making up lies about times that were good.
Extolling the virtues of motherhood,
Staunchly defending their sanity
Clutching one last shred of vanity
Fixing a kerchief she wears on her head
Covered in posies and lilacs in blues and in reds

Dont pity me, dont pity me,
You beautiful bastard boy,
Ill be just how I am.
Ill be just how I am.

The shopping bag ladies, its not that well known but theyre really in vogue.
The latest in fashions their tastes are so true,
Sweat sox and sneakers, a sweater or two
And safely behind the walls they have made,
Secure in their brown paper barricades
Worldly possessions theyll not have to lose
Lightweight emotional refuse.
They rant and they rave, theyre mad and theyre crazy.
And thats how they stay free.

Dont pity me, dont pity me,
You beautiful bastard boy,
Ill be just how I am.
Ill be just how I am.

The shopping bag ladies, its hard to believe, but once they were children

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