Planning each step toward the residence of self regret and money debt.
If I had a some self respect, I'd pay them less and less and less.
Buy a new dress,
Wear my hair up,
instead of leaving it a mess.
Put some make up on my face,
sedate the whole mutant race.
Place in the hall of 'what the fuck did you just do there?'.
Next to the same names that taught her all of the certain ways to stare,
clothes that blare,
evident pertinent sexuality,
not picking boys or girls,
she likes a, bit of variety.
Instead of that she chose prosperous propriety.
Society is the one got her jumping over these obstacles,
skipping goals to make up for the days she sold.
Holding a tight grip on that handle of previous mortal scandals,
trying on the golden goddess sandals,
wishing to God that she had someone else to grab the handles.
Steer the wheel a bit so she could sit,
get away from the cracks in the street that trip,
the head grip up until it performs a full split.
Ripped up,
sucked up,
fucked up,
that's tough.
So instead of make up on the face,
she wears a cold stare,
heating up for two minutes then returning to the glare.
Unless the senses get warm with the radiation of another,
who thinks outside the source that plugs us into the mother.
Shit, she'd get ready to smother,
that individual in a rigid hold,
just to keep out of the mold.
Instead of clothes that blare,
she wears whatever's clean.
And what she means is anything that everyone's already seen.
Then with the hair down,
she's showing you why she's so mean.
Hiding behind the veil given by the creator of our lead crowns.
Giving out little bits of obscene,
just to keep from the blood gleam,
literally plucked out the fucking seams.
But the grin is good enough to warm the worried smile.
It's nice that you feel the need to make this peasant feel like a queen.
Now sit down for a minute,
I'd like to talk to you for a while.
Get to learn about person that's walking all of these miles.
---
Fuuuuuckckckckckc
