Make this donation,
pinned as mass transportation,
sealing my envelope,
with your glowing lipstick,
then firmly stamp in a dirty heel,
on your vary pretty way out,
to an exclusive night club,
systematically paid for,
because you’re one,
of its brightest and hottest stars,
mounting your nearly inexhaustible debt,
almost ready to finally implode.
Lean against their sparkling floor,
creasing through waves as support,
a becoming smile nobody can ignore,
steady over the crowd you reel and distort,
administering intoxicating fumes to pass on your spore,
not accepting responsibility since you don’t perceive any tort.
I wanna be your queen and sister,
you gotta be my crown and scepter,
across our bed we’ll gladly lay,
solemn vows transformed physically,
watching our ashes drifting below as snow,
formulated into life-like figures sporting a dime bag of oregano.
Sharwrong's Song 