Meathead

I’ve given all the blood I can spare

It’s coming out my cunt, running down my hair

But these last few pints are mine

Proof that I lived at one time

Faultable Female Form

Even objects get mad

Done up like a painted bird

It’s a self-imposed Stockholm Syndrome

And when I apply my fave lipstick is it for me or for your dick?

He didn’t want me to want it, but to convince me I needed it

He is Bob, eager for fun; he wears a smile, everybody run

Even objects go mad

I know what I want, I know what I need

And you say faultable, but I say there’s nothing wrong with me