Immaculate Conception of Ill Repute

The sad girl who spoke too loud.
  The pretty girl in the middle of the crowd.
That's the one - she'll be a mother now.
Man after man, she'll lay under.
She's trying to disappear, they're staring with wonder.
And one of them, she's not sure which,
  Perhaps the one who slapped her and called her a bitch?
Summons the baby who descends from a cloud.
The girl is half her mother's daughter, 
  A fraction is left up to dispute.
She'll never know,
  an immaculate conception of ill repute.