Chutney Girl

Chutney Girl

No one can sleep in a house made of sour
and the chance of me sleeping gets less by the hour.
I'm a little green onion all trapped in a jar.
A chilli wrapped relic from my myanmar.

Then I can't sleep, I'm falling apart,
simmered in time and gingered folk art.
Chutney girl has pickled her heart.

And there's always a limit, you canot preserve,
you cannot pretend it int what we deserve.
I crack like the bottles on midnight kid's shelf.
Vinegar shrivels. I'm jamming myself.

Pick when they're green, fruit never went red.
We put it with sugar and boiled it instead.
I'll never go bad but I'll never be ripe.
Perfectly sweet was never my type.

Vinegar keeps but it comes at a price.
Saving the useless was always my vice.
Here I am keeping but no one has come,
Cos no one likes pickles, he'll never succumb.

But I can keep, but by falling apart,
simmered in time and gingered folk art.
Chutney girl has pickled her heart.