they scream "we're not drunk enough!"

so I give them the golden liquor of death

150 proof and an extra bottle of gin to control their djinns

some ginseng on top so they sing sweetly

genteel they're not gents who care naught

"take off your wedding ring, it's either you or me on top

sing sweetly, my fresh crop"

 

so I string a few words

exotic I am not

i'm not a marionette doll

no strings attached

metaphoric and literally

it's not just a hit-or-a-leave

I weave my body movements like a dresden doll

dressed in a dress that stresses aches and protests 

that it doesn't fit me

 

figure eight on the skates

another sweet escape from the mental hate

"her wedding ring would look good on me"

she rolls off the bed singing sweetly

 

singeing her skin from within

inside out and outside in

metatron mind all connected to sin

"I've got a churchly clique

and an earthly dick" he joked

as the pope spoke

 

so we all fall for it

she said "If I could let my mind soak in the silken words of God

i'd just wanna tell him: 'i'm sorry I couldn't beat the odds"