In centuries old,
And countless untold,
I stood on lofty way,
Gazing at the pretty girls,
*
Their hair stiff with lacquer,
And lips ripe with gloss,
One day, I wanted to be like the pretty girls,
And that day came.
*
Skirts just below the knee,
Fishnets riding high,
Corsets tightened,
And Doc Martens slowly breaking in,
*
So I’m not like those pretty girls,
Whose hair was like straw,
But I am my own self,
And surely thats something more.