She walks in.
The sun has curled up like a cat, by the sea.
The man on the moon is hanging by a crescent.
Leaving her working blues at the door,
she hangs up her let-downs
She walks in.
The cat has sunken roundly from the tin roof.
The man and the moon have climbed the stairs.
The blues leave her to find work,
the kettle whimpers, she hangs around.
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