Tell the ******* truth, Gwen Stefani, bleach blonde vamp. Questions stack up in the recesses of my mind, A renovation’s trash pile of drywall dust. You changed me, but there are things to clean up.
Did you just take a break to remake your image For swarms of chubby white suburban pre-teens Swarming in packs at the middle school dance? Are those the only bees you could catch in your hive?
How did you meld and mold the Harajuku girls To fit in the camera’s crosshairs or to walk the thin line of a New York fashion week runway? I must admit I still have my bottle of L.A.M.B.
Was the woman who screeched she was Just a Girl Just floundering for fame? Does this happen to Every mid-level artist? Will my inkwell turn To the blood of an easy fan base too?
I wanted you to be my mother, but you picked my platinum model sister as your favorite. But will I still become you, even though I know You’re false? Your press coverage can’t reveal the future.
Black tar lies spew from US magazine covers Eyes dark, I gobble them up in violent shudders.