most enigmatic rock 'n' roll Lolita

the only other auto-biopic inspired by a book author, ex-wife all-around great woman, her biography from which the movie, so unfortunately squandered, was taken and inspired was much better and more credibly written, and which was twice as nice having been written by the world's most enigmatic rock 'n' roll Lolita, who after almost inadvertantly taking down the whole business of rock 'n' roll, stayed married to the man whose fault, if any there was to assign, it was who did what she said to that reporter and because it was true, after that and everything she and the Killer went through, and Phoebe too, she is that what am  the coolest bad girl woman you have ever met, with the realest bad reputation Joan Jett can only sing, or that any good christian woman would secretly love to have, or at least,  love to put on and off like a coat, but which  Myra Lewis Williams​ will just leave on "thank you," because, "well, it's a little chilly in here," and oh, one more thing:  she can't take it off anyway, so she slightly demurs; but you can't pay for street cred like it anyway -- and to Kelly Hali Chelette​ whose cool is real with a little pancake makeup now, but  who'll surely survive, as she never need imitate that rockabilly girl she realizes she already is--and from one rocker, preceded by another, and then again, flanked by a sister or two, the one with her head  she inherited unbidden but never returned, because nobody'd take it back, it's  way too hot, and it burns.  And then the last one, and dearly beloved, let her rest in peace, body in Clayton, catch her soul, she  finally lay down her burdens and gave up the ghost--no more martyrdom to pretend, no more homefire burnin' to tend; late nights sellin'  bubblegum daiquiris with real bubblegum to chew and pop, but which more at the end popped more likely to come from that snub-nosed .38, which would go first out the door, closely followed by her, and, of course, Marion right behind until someone behind the register would see her comin' and snap back, and where she'd take that pistol and yell like she was on fire (excuse me for repeating, especially to Myra, whom only once did she have  to scold me, and which I finally realized that instead of thinking it hypocritical, it was Jerry Lee who ruined cursing for me, and that it didn't so much hurt her delicate sensibility, it was just she heard more of it by 16 than we still have yet to hear and see)...Well, Frankie Jean says, "get back out from behind that counter, motherfucker.  And I'm a Lewis. And DON'T FUCK WITH THE LEWISES!" Then with an enviable shrug of her shoulders it was somehow gone, and having diffused the situation, gun back in  resting hand, she'd step back from that skinny drive-thru liquor store-family museum of Ferriday, LA, birthplace and home of the Killer, her brother, and loving mother, and father, and sister too, mostly made for her to the brother, and she'd click her tongue, and with timing only a comedian or a Lewis can make, or of which a Lewis by proxy is imbued, and forever help them if they try to get it unglued, she'd turn around and with timing synced perfectly, she'd just look at you slightly and say with the strangest inflection, 'I'm sorry..." and then, "Well, not sorry,  you know...sorry for you that you had to see me do that.  But I guess you know that it's a violent world..." and then trail off again, and then on again, finish with the perfect 'let's forget about it' rejoinder, "Well, Killer, how's it feel to pop your cherry.  You know something, I don't drink, but how'd you like to try a little bit of moonshine one of Jerry's fans brought by?  It'll make you real warm and then cry," and then when you thought it was over, there was always the last line that left you always coming back for more, "Well, Killer, at least I HOPE he was a fan ... Lewises never apologize, but we are sometimes wrong, but not usually," and she'd laugh still not looking a minute over seventeen, and smile and clear her throat in her only little noticeable tic which was sweeter than you'd think and kinda endearing, and then say, "Well, I just hope I die before my brother.  If I don't I'll just have to close up the house and the store because I just don't think I could live without him," and then sadly smile and walk back over by the record machine where she was once and still was that last year I saw her, way too cute to be a minute over seventeen -- and then the guy writing this not as most rockin' or full of soul as those other females but I sure can pick my company and it's y'all and another and Jerry Lee, and before Frankie Jean passed, she finally took me to Black River, just her and me alone pointing out the dire state where they started out unnecessarily, and then warily, I started singin' 'The End of the Road' and after she joined in, we picked up again and both sang, "...it'll be me, and I'll be lookin' for you."