Dance, seduce, entrance, and use,
and fuck and cum and find the groove,
to mate the needle with that lusting vein,
amplifty your climax saving nothing in restraint.
What have you got to lose,
conquer seven men a week,
the fetus inside you's bullet proof ,
and aleady native to the street.
The only thing that packs more punch than your fury of maternal fists,
is the seclusion your baby inherits when you freebase that shit.
Its stronger than genetics,
pulse one, let the syrum circulate,
pulse two, destruction is endemic.
Your lesson's crimson leaks to her from a seatbelt's twist and a needle's stick,
and you think because she's two she can't understand it.
But she crawls in rooms confettied with condom wrappers and mom's friends become too friendly.
The torrent of men warrants installing revolving doors,
and her four year old fingers fortify further the castles in the corner over which she reigns "queen".
And thus the counterstrike has begun.
She molds her moat to construct a defense
and to distance herself from the wills of men.
And she orders her archers to the guard towers above,
and says 'shoot anything that moves me, even if its love'.
And in the present setting I can't blame her for this,
where what she sees suggests that lips are for kisses and fists.
'Cause that image will carry to the face of her first crush,
and she'll have never learned that lovers don't have to swing to touch.
Its not the pinch of the needle's push that sells this toddler her tears,
its how her mother gives her body away to all the other pricks in here.
And our four year old Highness says to her court, 'to what do I owe the occasion..."
"...that you all would be so adamantly ensuring my future's mutilation?"
But from these subjects her address tendors no heed,
this home houses five other castles, five other queens.
In life its assumed we learn that certain things don't mix,
like little girls and their granola, against your scotch and a morning fix.