We pander to the bourgeoisie as we write bad poetry dressed in neck ties and dead mens suits and come here and **** me glances hoping to get high on a nickel bags worth of lust as we ignore the pound of love trying to knock down our doors and we're drunk on dreams and void of hope and we bleed dried out tears and **** the venon from our self inflected wounds just to swallow it down into our lungs and we choke down sin and paint our flesh with the skin of dead stars and pretend we're something more than what we're pandering for which is nothing more than something less than the love we're secretly desperate for