"Blue jeans, white shirt
Walked into the room you know you made my eyes burn
It was like James Dean, for sure
You so fresh to death and sick as ca-cancer
You were sorta punk rock, I grew up on hip hop
But you fit me better than my favorite sweater, and I know
That love is mean, and love hurts
But I still remember that day we met in December, oh baby"

Apenas uma garota comum