Her name was Paris, *** she never had been.
Tattooed wings of an angel, like she never had sinned.
Up and down the pole, the place reeks of Aspen and gin.
But she cant help her love of dollars, so shes keeping the grin.

Her and I, are more similar than different.

she undresses on the stage,
I undress with my soul.
she moves her body to the music,
I move the pen with the flow.

We both ain't getting rich of it ,
But the stage is like a rhythm its hard to stay off...


-afj