Isn't it ironic, I think
That I care not for my looks
Yet everyone else does?
Why can't they see
What really matters to me?
A girl needs more than
Just beauty. I think.
What use is that at all?
She ought to be able
To read and write
And do whatever
She likes, I think.
Isn't it ironic?
My life is so simple
Yet I want so much more.
I wish I could see
What's in store.
Everyone here is so boring,
They're dim and closed-minded,
I hate it, I think.
Though Papa tries, he's getting old
He won't take care of me forever.
I wouldn't ask him to, anyway.
Isn't it ironic?
You know he would.
It seems like the only thing
I ever need to know
Is that I'm beautiful
And should be content with that.
I know I never will be,
For it matters not to me!
If I'm ever to have a life here
I'll accept it and shrivel
And conform.
But I won't. Never. I'll leave
Before I do that. I think.
Why can't they see
Who I am? Who they are?
What they are?
Hardly even people-
They're so mindless,
It's almost funny,
Yet pathetic even more.
I feel bad that they don't know
A woman is more than a prize.
More than just show.
But for now I'll go on living
In this simple little town,
And dreaming of what waits for me
When life becomes my own.
I wonder when they'll notice
when I'm even gone
That I'd even been here at all.
It won't matter, it never will.
All I count for is another wife
For some man to have, to own.
I think not.