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The Fuel

Working it, Lady Justice

The scent of body odor

Strong grit for her dreams

Nobody cares if she cries

She pulls trash bins

Black hair and square glasses


Dirt on her tawny skin

Troubles she keeps to herself

No complaints, not a sissy

She stocks shelves

Strong, calm, and silent type


Dry and cracked knuckles

Tunes her radio to hip hop

According to her moods

Punch the clock on time

Shows her heart to no one


Some say she is a survivor

Others say she is a nun

I know she deserves good

Daily wage grounds her

Clenching to her personal Jesus




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