Ash drifts over, flushed with fight,
and kisses the first tenderfoot
she sees, which sets his mouth alight.
Ash is a flake. She comes to hate
the hate that rumbles in her heart
but knows it like she knows her street.
Ash leaves every boy distraught,
bewildered, burnt, not seeing straight,
their bodies knotted up with hurt.
Ash, dishevelled, desolate,
gives the farewell faux-salute
and downs her whisky in defeat.