If I see one
more blonde haired bimbo Paying for Lemon-drops with daddy’s platinum express Well, you know. Shots fired (no pun intended).
We don’t take AmEx, Ma’am.
And are you a mandatory reporter? I’ve been told I should be aware of those watch what I do or say or who I tell inflammatory ideas to/ which supposedly, most of mine are.
I don’t hear voices.
But I also don’t really know who keeps me up at night.
Telling me to check in silverware drawers,
under empty, narrow bed frames. I’m bored of scary movies and it’s exhausting pretending
each & every day They tell me I am someone. I think I’m someone I’m not Or perhaps this act has become ingrained.
But you can’t know what you don’t know and won’t know if you do.
But let’s get back to the ‘impotent’ stuff Because I tell you these bimbos- I mean, I guess they aren’t really blonde at all Apart from the tiger stripes haloed their heads with tin-foil caps
And I, well uh, I- I shouldn’t really be so judgmental Cuz there’s an inkling in me that wonders
{the inkling not me, I’m not ready to take ownership of these thoughts} If i judge because I’d like to one day be the type of girl That people say is “like a high school sort of pretty, ya know?” And, well, really only women say that.
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