Puff your cares away, especially when Daddy’s away and West Coast prayers are all that’s on the table.

Moulin Rouge whores singing on a slimy cobblestone street,

Where you taking me to eat, Mister I’m a stallion from a ruby rouge stable?

Venom kisses before the croissants get cold,

war and morphine are the remains of the day and our choke collar pride before the fall.

Drinking my family’s name like it’s God’s only sin, I could tell you secrets that would turn you pale, frail and bitter only ends in being hung with a few rusty nails.

I’m no tainted angel in your father’s leftover fever dream.

Rather be a back alley freak than a suicidal duchess coated in thousand dollar Dior creams.

Fallen angels plotting our last laugh on Montague Street, thinking we’ve got nothing so please come take it all.

City hall cement and velvet gypsy tents, clock is ticking, your brain is itching but my shadow’s licked your creviced, serpent heart.

And now it’s too late.

No more hot cakes.

No more glittering toys.

Texte : © Cheyenne Crowe