Little Miss / by Rebecca Tillett

The old mill dies on top of the trash
Yet Little Miss hardly bats an eyelash
So much of that dirty shit has left a rash
Scrapes, bruises and whiplash

And so the royal civilian decides
After all he never took sides
Like a good little boy he always abides
By the rules, never mind the landslides

And so Little Miss dodges a threat ‘
cause she hasn’t touched that dang trash yet
Just thinkin’ about it gets her upset
Fucking pile always blocks the sunset

Royal civilian’s washed his hands of it all
Broken bottles, typewriter keys, toys and dolls
Couldn’t get it all done before nightfall
That old mill was nothing but an ugly catchall