It was I suppose,
Her pencil skirt that did me in.
Never trust a man,
Who says otherwise.
It was I suppose,
His chiseled chest that did her through.
Never trust a woman,
Who makes you believe otherwise.
For all his intelligence,
All her enamour.
All their dreamy thoughts,
That bloom like spring meadowed flowers.
What we see first,
Both spikes and hairfalls.
Is the beauty of the body,
The perfection that we've been taught.
We're the imperfect victims,
Of a perfectly perpetuated society.
Taught to tread carefully,
Through the blurred lines deviously disguised.
We are taught to love,
By the love lost loner.
We are told to be tolerate,
By the taunted jilted moaner.
Ooh fickle life,
what a sullen lie.
Ooh hopeless future,
Defeated before you even tried.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
It was I suppose,
Her pencil skirt that did me in.
Never trust a man,
Who says otherwise.
It was I suppose,
His chiseled chest that did her through.
Never trust a woman,
Who makes you believe otherwise.
For all his intelligence,
All her enamour.
All their dreamy thoughts,
That bloom like spring meadowed flowers.
What we see first,
Both spikes and hairfalls.
Is the beauty of the body,
The perfection that we've been taught.
We're the imperfect victims,
Of a perfectly perpetuated society.
Taught to tread carefully,
Through the blurred lines deviously disguised.
We are taught to love,
By the love lost loner.
We are told to be tolerate,
By the taunted jilted moaner.
Ooh fickle life,
what a sullen lie.
Ooh hopeless future,
Defeated before you even tried.