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 cock-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.