I hear another story on how you got out this time,
flick your cigarette, but the distance comes up short
Mountain from a molehill, sucking on a Parliament.
Well allow me to retort
You're a greasy whitefish off of Michigan Avenue
presenting hip fashion on the runway
Those flashes age you as quick as gunfire
While I strangle you with your own lingerie
You're fucking wretched, so quit stepping on my faux art shoes
And you're goddamn ign'nt, no you don't listen
You must listen to my faux art views.
Headlines burn off the rack like a prairie fire
Or that of Chi town scorched once again
Scars from your arrival, new fashion, your own blood is in.
You're a heavenly hellfire blazing glorious starshine
where ever your agency sends you.
You're a white washed suit-clad demon with a news van
Packing all the smack that you're abusing
You're fucked, yeah you're getting cut
To spill your guts unto my new wave shoes
You lose, yeah you're getting used.
Used just like a faux art tool.
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