do you cut your diamonds on those sharp, pretty little horns of yours? i bet you do.
do you wash your upper-echelonic car with the tears of your victims? i bet you do, i know you do.
you burn out the water-logged hearts of sailors stricken by your siren song
with a body hot enough to turn sand to glass
but a heart cold enough to kill the sun dead fast
you act like queen of hell
(but you taste/look/smell
like heaven)