You are a fickle paradise I am not sure whether I want to be drunk on you Or high You exist in seconds My hours can't capture Yet I can't stop chasing For you are the notion of my rapture
What to do With a ruling class who Absolutely spoiled, rotten, There's no progress for you. What does it matter Internationally, what they do When we bleed at home And they tied the noose
Has shame dried Cranberry bogs On cotton Have hormones peaked Or have the eggs spoiled, Turned rotten Is there more to a woman Than her ****** functions Or will she do as she's told And remain in her place On the bottom