Candy On the Cross
Goose pimple cold in a white plastic mini
She teeters on broken high heels
Sucks on Silk Cut
Sixteen and old
And we'll never know how she feels
She's sold and re-sold
Summer dress in November
The wind howls through the cloth
Like a blade
Sad little doll
With an arm full of heroin
This is how candy is made
This is how candy is made
There's no guardian angel
In the Caledonian Road
There's no guardian angel
In the Caledonian Road
It's three hundred days
Since she went helter-skeltering
Damaged goods can still be sold
Three hundred nights
Under stars there's no shelter
Just lager to make her feel bold
Since she's been broken
There's no feeling
Lying with her legs spread
Staring at the celing
In a shabby little room
Where sex is a chore
Will a Fether Lite
Keep the wolf from the door?
She's hard, yet soft
Tough but brittle
No talk, no kiss, no spunk or spittle
Hates her pimp
Pities the trick
Her addiction keeps her...sick
There's no guardian angel
In the Caledonian Road
There's no guardian angel