She swings upon playground,
Bright blue ribbons in her hair,
And the kids tell her that she’s weird,
But doesn’t really care,
She goes home to her mother,
Who asks her about her day,
She’s happy being six years old,
Since there’s always time to play.
She looks out at the playground,
From her cold and hard school chair,
And the kids all call her crazy,
She goes home to her mother,
But she doesn’t ask about her day,
She doesn’t enjoy being ten,
Because there isn’t time to play.
Her new school has no playground,
And the kids have learned to swear,
They tell her she’s a waste of space,
And she decides t cut her hair,
She goes home to her mother,
But she’s working late instead,
She wishes she wasn’t fifteen,
And she could just be dead.
She drives to her old playground,
And sits on the swings seat,
Before she sees a bright blue ribbon,
Laying crumbled at her feet,
She’d go home to her mother
But no longer lives there,
Being eighteen is a lot of work,
When there’s nobody who cares.
She learnt to hate all playgrounds,
Since the sight fills her with dread,
And the voices of the children
Come flooding back into her head,
She wishes she could go back,
To when she didn’t care,
Where the only things that came united,
Were the ribbon in her hair.
