Tipsy Trixie likes to do blow.
Coffee, blow.
    Lunch, blow.
       Shopping, blow.
For Trixie, that's how life goes,
A long line of genocide
    Going up into her nose
Before a cold, bare floor catches Trixie's clothes,
in an attempt to add to her stash
Of street corner cash
All wrapped up in rolls.

Selling herself short just to finance the blow,
She'll soon snort herself cold,
or maybe she'll get **** rich and forever swim in her snow.

But I'm no dreamer,
And trixie's a coke *****.
Another street corner dime
Just looking to score.
When this winter blows over
She'll be sniffing for more.