She walked barefoot in the desert and wore desert boots to bed.
My baby was topsy turvy dipsy swervy crossed up curvy clean out of her head.
A cast iron face that kept the truth bound and shackled.
Deep inside her head.
Self deception was her stock in trade and every choice she ever made was reasoned Wearing blinders.The snake that ate her tail
Her logic was.
Circular in nature no ending or beginning. Which guaranteed her winning
Regardless.
But only in her twisty wheelhouse.
Crazy as aa ******* rat.
Twisting facts into tasty pastry.

Seving them up on shiny ware.
Neither here nor either there
Calculating slipknot tension
Telling tales too tall to mention
The daughter of the pretzel maker
Part deluded.Rabid faker.
Pretzel logic
Pretzel minded.
Twisted now and twisted later.
Down the road I go.