Her shaved head and her pierced nose,
Her big rotweillers and her tie-dyed clothes,
Her Dr. Martins with her biker tights,
And long black leggings on a hot summer night.

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 sympathy's buried as deep as his hurts,
Long lonely walks with nowhere to go,
And his only appointment's with a TV show.

And nobody calls him baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so,"
Nobody calls him baby,
I guess he'll never know.

Eighty pounds, she's hardly whole,
She's losing her body to gain some control,
Hours alone in some tanning salon,
And trying a smaller and smaller size on.

And nobody calls her baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so,"
Nobody calls her baby,
I guess she'll never know.

His pin-striped suits and wing-tipped shoes,
His lap-top* computer and his Wall Street news,
He makes his plane, he keeps his pace,
And he hides his pain behind a poker face.

And nobody calls him baby,
Nobody says, "I love you so,"
Nobody calls him baby,
I guess he'll never know.

Yeah, but somebody loves those babies,
Somebody loves what we can't see,
And if somebody told them maybe,
Those babies would be free.
Those babies would be free.

*Lost and Found recently changed it to palm-top computers to fit with modern technology