Lipstick, cherry red
A face, a body you can’t get out of your head
Hair done, nails too
A look that suggests they want to screw you
High heels, make up on
You’re the bishop, they’re the pawns;
Another pony in a fucking parade,
A pigeon willing to play the game
Where the rule is and always has been
To win not the hearts, but the desire of men.
But guess again
Because beauty quickly fades
In this perilous brigade
When seen with the eyes, not felt by the heart.
But how can you be expected to get that
In the end
When you’ve been this shallow from the start?