Let’s have a good ol’ fashioned knock-down drag-out brawl,

The likes of which they haven’t seen since late last fall,

when you got drunk and shit-kicked everybody in the bar.

Your rage is always skimming just below the surface of your skin,

boiling and burning and ready to take one on the chin,

You get in trouble, but never enough to leave a scar.

Girl, you’re angrier by far than anyone has ever seen,

only the video cameras have recorded your oily sheen,

you hide it well until you’re shaken and your cork is popped.

You’re made of rubber, staples, glass, and sand,

Ready to snap, fold, break, or slip right out of hand,

And only your guy Friday could ever see this stopped.

But you ought to know, this brawl is gonna die out soon,

When he leaves you out to dry, lookin’ like a loon,

So leave him first–burn down the house–and run:

far, far, far.


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