Torch the moon, burn the schools
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She wrote in red on her bedroom wall -
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"Nothing's pure", the paint runs to the floor
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She laughs too easily and cries too hard
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Shouldn't drink alone, the colours run
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How can she forgive
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When we know well what we do?
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Feather scratches on her wrist
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Dry run with a bread knife for a final twist
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It wouldn't be for show if it should come to this
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She was born to feel it all, to see it all
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When I feel so lightly it's still burning brightly
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And she won't look away
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Torch the moon, burn the schools
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Why it's a man making all the rules
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Frida Khalo poster on her door
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Cries Too Hard
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| The Whitlams |
