Meathead

I’ve given all the blood I can spare
It’s coming out my cunt, running down my hair
But these last few pints are mine
Proof that I lived at one time
Faultable Female Form
Even objects get mad
Done up like a painted bird
It’s a self-imposed Stockholm Syndrome
And 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 it
He is Bob, eager for fun; he wears a smile, everybody run

Even objects go mad
I know what I want, I know what I need
And you say faultable, but I say there’s nothing wrong with me