ROXIE THE DOXIE

ROXIE

ROXIE THE DOXIE

My friends call her a hooker

But I tell them all they lied.

She hangs out on the corner

Because she likes to be outside.

But if they keep on insisting

On calling her a whore

They just don’t get to

Talk to me any more.

 

They call her Roxie the Doxie

But they are not being fair.

They make fun of her skirt

And her fuzzy purple hair.

They comment on her walk,

The way she swings her hips.

They don’t love her like I do

Down to her fingertips.

 

She’s a little bit familiar

With guys she doesn’t know

Chatting with them warmly

As they come and go.

My friends are unkind to her

They like to put her down

When she asks quite friendly,

“Hi, sailor. New in town?”

 

They call her Roxie the Doxie

But they are not being fair.

They make fun of her skirt

And her fuzzy purple hair.

They comment on her walk,

The way she swings her hips.

They don’t live like I do

Down to her fingertips.

 

She can’t keep a regular job

The boss’s wife always acts

Like she has caught him

With Roxie in the sack.

Besides she has some problem

With things like the alphabet.

She says out on the corner

That hasn’t mattered yet.

 

They call her Roxie the Doxie

But they are not being fair.

They make fun of her skirt

And her fuzzy purple hair.

They comment on her walk,

The way she swings her hips.

They don’t live like I do

Down to her fingertips.

 

 

Brent Kincaid

1/7/2015

 

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