Sweet little pretty ran away from the trouble, we saw it all through the peephole. She carried her belongings in a purple pair of stockings and her head in a fish bowl. I caught her walking backwards with a dead bunch of flowers and a feather in her waistband, talking to the birds about the places she was gong in the ads on the news stand.
Saw lost pretty gone, pretty gone yeah yeah yeah, lost pretty gone, pretty gone yeah yeah yeah, lost pretty gone.
All her free movie passes burned up in housefire that no one could have started. Well they fired up the incubator, almost an incinerator, laughing about the wall climb. Swinging round the tree house, singing like a loud trout, it's donuts for the last time. Sign says back later, protoplasm gladiator, see you on the jelly rack. Couldn't really miss it with the number on the biscuit, I'll be there when the eggs hatch.