Her shaved head and her pierced nose,
her big rotweillers and her tie-dyed clothes.
Her Dr. Martens with her biker tights,
her long black leggings on a hot summer nights.
And nobody calls her baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so."
Nobody calls her baby
I guess she'll never know.
His working boots and flannel shirts,
his sympathies buried as deep as his hurts,
long lonely walkds with nowhere to go
and his only appointment is with a TV show.
And nobody calls him baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so."
Nobody calls him baby
I guess he'll never know.
Eighty pounds she's hardly whole,
losing her body to gain some control.
Hours alone in some tanning salom,
trying a smaller and smaller size on.
And nobody calls her baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so."
Nobody calls her baby
I guess she'll never know.
His pin-striped suits and his wing-tipped shoes,
his lap-top computer and his wall street news,
he makes his plane and keeps his pace.
He hides his pain behind a poker face.
But somebody loves those babies.
Somebody loves what we can't see.
And if somebodt told them maybe,
Those babies would be free.
