My stomach Dance wobbly Tiny folds of skin It’s my own fault And his fault and love
I want fries And meat With a bun, soft and sweet I don’t like bread made out of cauliflowers, flowers
Fastfood widow is who I am Can’t do anything I'm going for some glans
Doesn’t help Making love Exercise and stuff It’s my own fault And his fault and love
I want to smoke and soar Lay down, on the floor I don’t like running 3 times a week In an hour, an hour I want to smoke and soar Lay down, on the floor I don’t like running 3 times a week In an hour, an hour
