The coca-******* parties
The weekend spews at 10
The cycle of sleeping and *******
Repeats itself again
The brown, the crack, the ****, the smack
Fuel her replica world
It’s a far off cry from the glamorous life
Promised to the matchstick girl

A head of hair thatched upon
Walls of weak foundation
The chic new style to fill the aisles
And sweep entire nations.
She’s Bambi on ice in a dress so tight
It would make your mother hurl
But we live in a time where all women pine
For the look of the matchstick girl

The big old Pappa Razzi
Guard her every step
From the same hold-hand fanatics
That crave her vinous breath
The punks, the queens, the teenage dreams
Who buy their love with pearls
Stick close to her side and somewhat abide
They’re friends with the matchstick girl.

The Sunday evening voicemails
The daily text of pain
From a desolated mother
Who begs to see her again.
The pleas, the cries, the tears don’t dry
While apologies unfurl
For the sins, the aches and major mistakes
Made by the matchstick girl.