I tried to write a hit record. It’s out tomorrow and it goes like this:

At the antique mall, on the frontage road

She buys her vinyl, and she writes her code

She wants to play drums in a shoegaze band

She wants to write songs the world can’t withstand

Cheap red wine, Moleskine notebooks

Thrifted denim, sidelong looks

Boys in white trucks, drifting through town 

She gives them names, and writes them down

Jacksonville Girl, in her scuffed Skechers

Walking the line, taking the measure

Of a world so small it can’t contain her

She’ll burn it down, sooner or later  

She knows she’s every bit as complicated

As the women in the magazines

And though she doesn’t think they’re related

She’s got Sydney Sweeney’s jeans

From the land grant school to the football lights

From the Dairy Queen to the dumb fistfights

Her roommate brought home a Tindr date

Sits in her room inviolate

Jacksonville Girl, in her scuffed Skechers

Walking the line, taking the measure

Of a world so small it can’t contain her

She’ll burn it down, sooner or later