Suburban whore, hoping to score.
Second class, you only have a nice ass. Your
personality is trash, you struggle to comprehend simple math.
You said, "enter through the back door"
Taking Xanax bars, zooming past mars, to blind
to see the stars.
Sipping on bourbon, you almost had me swerving.
You want to take trips to distant shores.
But no one loves you anymore, so what are you
You think you're entitled, when you're alone
you become suicidal.
You thought you were
smart, playing a game, breaking men's hearts. But you were
transparent right from the start.
Need I say more?
Are you still hoping to score?
If I said you were caudal pertaining to I, could
you rebuttal, do you even know why?
You must ride a special shuttle.
That has to be where you and your guy friends
huddle, to perform quick tricks.
It sickly trickles down your face, you take it
with such grace, you must certainly enjoy the taste of paste.
A smile, vile, teething looking as yellow as
The looks you had, have you in denial.
You groan like an old crone.
You can't get your head in the zone, the
lights have been left on, no ones home.
It scares that no one cares.
You're a mare, with a broken leg.
You know the next stage, it's all there in
your blank stare.