Is it the blue moon or stars that shine like grills that make me feel this way?
To be someone dripping hot gold like it’s lava,
Molten rock skin black like Madonna,
It’s the smell the paper and the metal-taste,
Makes me sweat makes me croon,
To be worshiped with jewels and adorned,
no one seems happier in life than those eccentric old ladies who wear all one color or collect frogs or have wacky hair colors and usually live alone with some funky pets and have weekly book club meetings with their equally amazing friends