hazy heat and sweaty fingers fingering the thin bones by your neck, mascara dripping out of every pore, all so rich but all so poor, and that's such a bore, and they begged for more; more money, more fame, more isolation, more sane; they craved all the glory, but this story is quite gory, and in the bedtime story they were all shown in a different light, a different type, a different font that alters your views, that alters the snooze button on your alarm clock, on your writers block, and those mismatched socks; they were all so sick, just so slick, maybe not all that wicked in their undignified ways of the slow torture of foreplay, and they all say, what's flirting with death if you don't get a little taste, and that is what they tasted of, death and smoke and meth and mirrors, glimmery, shimmering, drinking from that spiked lemonade, how naughty, how sinful. what a delight.
