She said she came from Portland
Where the ashen skies and leaden ocean
Left her like the local boys, barren of emotion
As we talked we watched the raindrops
Running down the window
Laundromat in Darlinghurst
Like a fish shop from the past

And her mother called her Mary
After Mary Magdalene
To deny her beauty
Would have been the greatest sin
It was a profile in the neon and a Kings Cross Doorway lean
To half an hour of tending someone else's tangled dream

There were lines of sailors, lines of speed
Lines upon the Footpath where she stared
When things were quiet, as night deferred to dawn
And the coke cups played red rover
In the breeze that scuttled through the streets
Taxies left for greener fields
While Sydney stretched and yawned

And her mother called her Mary

After Mary Magdalene
There were virgins in the morning
She had sisters in the pain;
And the wives would clutch their husbands
Perhaps they shared the shame
'cause working streets and Weddingrings are sometimes much the same
She tap-danced with the buskers
Near the subway shouting blues songs
They remembered from their teenage years of dreamtime radio
And the years withdrew behind her eyes
To let the little girl look out
In simple childish innocence
At drawings in the sand

And her mother called her Mary
After Mary Magdalene
She had long dark hair and massage oil
And a key to let you in;
And the lines upon her face were maps of roads she'd travelled
Lined with people throwing stones because they didn't understand
That a half an hour of tenderness (perhaps they shared the same)
'cause working streets and Weddingrings are sometimes much the same