Polly two-phones playing polyphonic ringtones,
Unearthed a Nokia like Indiana Jones
Underground archaeology, eyes tired from alcoholic toxicity,
Dreaming of holidays in Sicily,
But she don’t have the budget,
Don’t assume – silly me.
And her idle idolatry feeds the lethargy
That feeds the profits of fuckin Maccy D’s!
But that’s plain to see when ripped jeans
Bare seams like fabric fangs,
Tight white strands that chew the skin
That spills out from underneath.
And under her knees are two red feet
Strawberry shoes paired with her nails,
Her hair and the lipstick on her teeth,
Don’t she know that it pays to be neat?
Cos you never know who you might meet,
Run into or run away from,
Facebook stalking her date from the sixth form prom.
Formerly prominent, but forlornly piled on pounds much to her detriment,
Regimented lips pursed in concentration,
Texting the guys she’d consider datin’
Or at least sharing a few intimate relations.
See, I’m not hatin, just statin what I assume to be fact,
Not interested in lies like the red tresses
She’s stuffed up under her black Nike cap.