Drips to the brain and a shock on your lips/ With a paper-thin smile as she slowly moves her hips/ Eyes glazed over she just wants to find a way out/ But she hits and then she trips until she's on the ground passed out. You mean to tell me you're an angel? **** lies. Because you're stuck inside your own mind lookin' for a compromise. Earthquake, shook up, waitin' for the sun to rise/ Aftershock, thrown up, do it all again tonight. She's a little diva, with a tattoo when her sleave's up/ Keep it from the parents they don't know just what the street's done. Darling likes 'em daring better hope she doesn't catch one/ Paralyzing stare and she'll forget you after all the fun. But it's a sickness, her fever seems so cyclic. She hustles-loves-and moves-on shouting independence. 'She's not the one to blame' they say, 'she's a product of her environment' no way. She's a self-sustained dope-headed crack-craving ****-train. Begging for her high she can lie to fill the pocket, A siren slowly swinging with her skin a little off-tint. But what if lies were only lies because of what ourselves define, and maybe lines scribbled over lines are just the best way I can hide.