If I ever send a dick pick
That shit stays flaccid;
I ruined my brain
When I dropped assiduously
All my bad habits;
Missing mass
Seeking the blood of Christ
To have a good time.
And those thin wafers
melts–in–your–mouth sublime.
I want to die til the gun's in my mouth
I want to fly til the planes headed South
I wanted to help but my hands are both full
Of empty 40s and a cock and bull story—
It's not gory but it sure coulda been.
It's not sexy, unless you're living in sin.
I can't talk about it.
I can't talk about it.
I can't talk about it.
It should have been me.
I can't talk about it,
I can't talk about it,
I can't talk about it,
Man, I'll never be free.
I used to dress up, loved
Pretty, pretty princess.
I used to dress up,
I loved looking fly til the incessant
Pecks on the cheek
From the birds and the dolls.
My toes still curl
From the creeps in the bog.
Does kissing on a princess
Make you a frog?
I can't talk about it.
I can't talk about it.
I can't talk about it.
It should have been me.
I can't talk about it,
I can't talk about it,
I can't talk about it,
Man, I'll never be free.
What happened to my crown and my jewels?
I didn't want the riches,
I just want the tools.
Driving 140 was never a feat.
I just want to eat
I don't care much for feasts.
It's best said by the treats
for beasts like me:
Plastic men, again,
Plastic men, again,
Plastic men, again,
Why always the women.
I don't have a kin,
I don't have a kind,
I am out of my mind
Pretty, pretty princess,
The poor side of the family was gaudy,
The whole thing was Hell
But at least one side was godly,
All in all, their work was shoddy.
But nevertheless, by eight years old:
I'm afraid of my own body.