Tipsy Trixie likes to do blow. Coffee, blow. Lunch, blow. Shopping, blow. For Trixie, that's how life goes, A long line of genocide Going up into her nose Before a cold, bare floor catches Trixie's clothes, in an attempt to add to her stash Of street corner cash All wrapped up in rolls.
Selling herself short just to finance the blow, She'll soon snort herself cold, or maybe she'll get **** rich and forever swim in her snow.
But I'm no dreamer, And trixie's a coke *****. Another street corner dime Just looking to score. When this winter blows over She'll be sniffing for more.