Scissors-Peter Hammill

A figure by the traffic lights, face washed out in the rain, she's here once more to make her nightly stand for love and pain. Her story written on her face reading between the lines; still private in this public place she's carefully designed her open secret. Reliant on their charity to feed and clothe her kids she holds a card out to the drivers, behind it safely hidden her little sceret, for their eyes alone. And she only needs a moment of weakness, window wound down just a crack, and she'll explode with all that pent-up stuff inside her and attack with her scissors, secret scissors, sharpened scissors.