Ha, no kidding,
even though you’re probably trying to be,
completely serious,
which is really such a rotten shame,
because you’re honestly coming off,
as only a joke instead,
tough break, dear.
There’s another surprise for sure,
you got me wet in a corner,
eating kinky paint chips,
direly waiting for all of these utter shocks to pass,
before you lay down one,
I can’t ever recover from,
uh,
then simply shut that filthy pork hole of yours.
Whoa, exactly like millions of other girls,
yeah, that’s kinda what icons are about, honey,
to dream and fantasize of,
while your stupid life drifts along the shore,
and onward to any other coast,
when you can’t accept what you don’t know,
yet pretend very well that you’re still powerful.
Right, but make quite certain to rub most of it,
in our smug balloon faces,
like you’re somehow actually up early,
fixing breakfast with a brand new juicer,
busy popping a rapid fire of blood orange seeds,
across your mother’s whole sleepy kitchen.
Obviously a rather poor self-esteem,
wishing savagely to hold us all under with you,
of course not until after you’ve had your rash fits,
picking a fight with everyone to scratch a little,
against those languishing tender and bruised insides.
Sharwrong's Song 