This glitter show’s now getting started, friends,
with your pitiful mouth starring for us once again,
skating recklessly over glossy hardwood floors,
apparently no care for what’s to be said anymore.
Okay, I give up, who the hell are we speaking of,
has she arrived here already or is she late as usual,
did I meet her before or am I blind like everyone else,
come on, aren’t you ever going to tell us sometime?
It’s not about anybody’s jealousy, you dumb broad,
just let up a little from huffing out of your filthy armpit,
take off them nasty shades and grimy false eyelashes,
see what’s been happening since you went awe-struck!
Your steaming vibrant jungle’s reheating in the living room,
filling a corroded goblet with blood and some hard liquor,
performed that seductive fan dance while still fully clothed,
leaving them all panting away across the antique furniture.
We kind of got that very sad impression from earlier, doll,
raising your spindly rigid arms to cry out more “Mommy,”
topped with a gentle overflow between your crossed legs,
essentially quietly announcing that it’s time for afternoon tea.
Crazy, girl, except you’re parked in my vast private space,
plus one until all eternity with even God in a stranglehold,
ripping the bleeding pages from each other’s exposed diary,
in bewilderment at this myopic game’s strength and potential!
Sharwrong's Song 