It's the last day,
The road coming out of a woman picks the woman up
And arrives at the last day
She lowers her yellow brow, and writes a check
As if doing needlepoint, a woman writes a check
Five hundred dollars a month
The day the rent is due is the most unbearable
Her checkbook gets thinner
And tomorrow she'll hang a new calendar
The embroidering bird barely got a single wing
Among last days coming in a row, the woman who became a check
Whenever she is torn she makes a choking sound
It's the last day,
It's the last day,
It lies in calendars whose pages turn with a flutter