Late at night,
In this house
Something isn't right.
A young woman, long and lean
Just a girl, only fourteen.
Oh such a beautiful, tender age,
She yawns as she turns the page.
Dark circles under her eyes,
If you ask she'll tell you lies.
She tosses and turns into the night,
Dreaming of the boy she loves with all of her might.
Five or six,
Her mind will play
Such heartless tricks.