Her shaved head and her pierced nose,

Her big rotweillers and her tie-dyed clothes,


Her Dr. Martins with her biker tights,

Her long black leggings on a hot summer night

And nobody calls her baby,

Nobody says "I love you so,"

Nobody calls her baby,

I guess she'll never know

His working boots and flannel shirts,

His sympathies buried as deep as his hurts,

Long lonely walks with nowhere to go,

His only appointment's with a tv show

And nobody calls him baby,

Nobody says "I love you so,"

Nobody calls him baby,

I guess he'll never know

Eighty pounds, she's hardly whole,

Losing her body to gain some control,

Hours alone in some tanning salon,

Trying a smaller and smaller size on

And nobody calls her baby,

Nobody says "I love you so,"

Nobody calls her baby,

I guess she'll never know

His Pin-striped suits and wing-tipped shoes,

His lap-top computer and his Wall Street news,

He makes his plane and keeps his pace,

He hides his pain behind a poker face

And nobody calls him baby,

Nobody says, "I love you so,"

Nobody calls him baby,

I guess he'll never know

But somebody loves those babies,

Somebody loves what we can't see,

And if somebody told them maybe,

Thos babies would be free

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