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"