NOTHING TO DECLARE
     

Woman in a cab
Is speeding to the runway
She rolls down the glass
The wind won't dry her tears
Her hands are shaking still
Reaching for the money

He didn't understand
The treasure in the sand
And so she runs, with nothing to declare

Woman in a line
For once don't check her mirror
Her smile is smeared
Her eyes blink through a blur
She buys a one-way seat
Empties out her handbag

Then she clicks up the ramp
Don't spare a backward glance
With just one bag, and nothing to declare

[Solo].

Woman in a plane
Is high above the clouds now
She travels business class
Men peer through spectacles
They judge her by her looks
Then turn back to their papers

And then the timer goes
The plastic compound blows
For fleeting moments, she has something to declare



© David Lowe 1990