I’ve given all the blood I can spareIt’s coming out my cunt, running down my hairBut these last few pints are mineProof that I lived at one timeFaultable Female FormEven objects get madDone up like a painted birdIt’s a self-imposed Stockholm SyndromeAnd when I apply my fave lipstick is it for me or for your dick?He didn’t want me to want it, but to convince me I needed itHe is Bob, eager for fun; he wears a smile, everybody runEven objects go madI know what I want, I know what I needAnd you say faultable, but I say there’s nothing wrong with me
