Birth Sex Disease DeathMature

Here's your catchy little pop song
A four-chord gift from the plastic Gods
A song you can fuck to softly
A song you can abort to

So spread your legs like a flowers bruising petals
because you're only beautiful when you contaminate

Here's your three and a half minutes
A generic hook-laden chorus
A song you can you can sing along to
A song that can sell revolution

So spread your arms like dying flower descending
because you're only worthwhile when you fuck

I don't care about adoration
I don't care about vindication
I don't care about acceptance
I don't care about perfect structure
or perfect endings

The End

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