Her shaved head and her pierced nose,

Her big rotweillers and her tie-dyed clothes,

Her Dr. Martins with her biker tights,

Her 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 some 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



His 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