She wants to feel like she's
As sour as grape juice
Her heart says she wants love
But her mouth says abuse
She looks black and white when
She's on the colour screen
She's left and she right
And also in between
She's an analogue girl
In these digital days
She has no religion
But yet each night she prays
She wants to be bitty
Like powdered tea creamer
But she wishes she was
The logical dreamer
The look in her eyes is
Too thin and too dusty
Like old wooden veneer
It's now all gone crusty
The words on her breath are
Scented less than mint fresh
She's covered in darkness
Where there should be pure flesh
She's fake and she knows it
And she's cried out to you
"Won't you please sort for
Me the false from the true?"