She's got no music on her ipod. No money in her jeans. Just a bag full of memories and a lover she cannot see. She is not a hippie. She is not a tramp. She is not any ordinary girl. She has a hole in her sandal 'cause she likes to taste the earth beneath. She's probably worth a million bucks that she ain't ever seen.

It's another thing that she will not speak, she's got a spindle for a steering wheel. If you look behind her speedy wagon, you will see her stories billowing in the wind. She has no religion, just legends lingering down her long hair.

No road maps, just gut. No blinkers, just the mind. No whisper, no sweet sigh, just grunts of struggle. Swift, determined, masculine rhythm of the feet. Ain't she the most beautiful things? Mud covered and fiery with fervour.