Jenny prods her dry, chapped lips,
And thinks about who could want to kiss her,
She lifts her skirt before the mirror,
And thinks about the daring underwear,
That could make up for what she lacks,
In facial beauty.
She skims her memory of other parties,
In an attempt to analyse her ways,
The old mistakes which she has made,
For years and years and years.
What fog of occurences,
Leaving her confusion,
To straddle on the evening,
Already too far gone,
Before she has even left the house.
Her problem, she thinks, is…