The Two Chord Ballad

She appeals to me
Sort of like Mata Hari
She avoids things flowery
She pointed out the dog sleeping on the car roof
Reminded her of a lion she once saw on safari
Laughs at her own jokes
Wrapped in intrigue and cigarette smoke
Wearing those faded jeans
Watching the world revolve around her
Watching the guys surround her
While she explains the consciousness of streams

She speaks to me
Says she’s cutting her hair
For some audience she knows is out there
But her audience is me, and I don’t care
She doesn’t need an analyst
She doesn’t need a guitar tuner
She tunes her guitar herself
Pulls books from the shelf
And wonders why she never bought them sooner