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



    Don't pity me, don't pity me,

    You beautiful bastard boy,

    I'll be just how I am.

    I'll be just how I am.



The shopping bag ladies, it's not that well known but they're 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 they'll not have to lose

Lightweight emotional refuse.

They rant and they rave, they're mad and they're crazy.

And that's how they stay free.



    Don't pity me, don't pity me,

    You beautiful bastard boy,

    I'll be just how I am.

    I'll be just how I am.



The shopping bag ladies, it's hard to believe, but once they were children…