The shopping bag ladies they live in the terminal waiting room,
Patiently whiling their hours away,
Desperately keeping the 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 with posies, in lilacs and 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 socks and sneakers, a sweater or two,
And safely behind the walls they have made,
Secure in their brown paper barricades,
Wordly possessions they'll not have to lose,
Lightweight emotional refuse,
They rant and they rave, they're mad and they're crazy,
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.