Hey pot, meet kettle, in all her lovely shades of black.
Watch her strip off her clothes, and see her dance without grace or tact.
Hear her sing of:
Wasted opportunities and irrelevant tissue, a tired refrain of lessons learned and ruptured veins.
Off key musings of ginsu knives, sour notes of colorful cocktails of doxylamine.
I will sing her song.
all rights reserved