shaved head and her pierced nose, big rotweillers and her tie-dyed clothes, Dr. Martins with her biker tights, 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 sympathies buried as deep as his hurts, Long lonely walks with nowhere to go, 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, Losing her body to gain some control, Hours alone in a tanning salon, 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. Pin-striped suits and wing-tipped shoes, His lap-top computer and his Wall Street news, He makes his plane and keeps his pace, 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. But somebody loves those babies, Somebody loves what we can't see, And if somebody told them maybe, Those babies would be free.