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Her shaved head and her pierced nose Her big Rottweilers and her tie-dyed clothes Her Dr. Martins with her biker tights Her long, black leggings on a hot summer night Chorus: And nobody calls her baby, nobody says "I love you so." Nobody calls her baby, I guess she'll never know His working boots and flannel shirts His sympathies buried and deep as his hurts Long, lonely walks with nowhere to go His only appointment's with a tv show Chorus Eighty pounds she's hardly whole She's losing her body to gain some control Hours along in some tanning salon And trying a smaller and smaller size on Chorus His pinstripe suit and his wingtip shoes His laptop computer and his Wall Street News He makes his plane he keeps his pace He hides his pain behind a poker face Chorus But somebody loves those babies Somebody loves what we can't see And if somebody told them, maybe Those babies would be free