C.S.R.

Gun-metal to the lobe, you take everything
With little discretion, you get an erection
From stripping people of the hope they wish you could give them
Your well kept facade is tearing at the seams
Your stench can be smelled all throughout the building
Counting coins as you kick her in the teeth
Racketeer by any name;
Black market Ken Doll in the frontal position