The man who gets to have you, well he’s dead to me.
The artists and the writers, and the kings and photographers
Well I imagine them with their models and queens and characters
Sipping some something I’ve never heard of
They laugh and she smiles and then she hangs in her head
She looks up and she’s biting her lip and she’s looking at him
And that fucking devil, that fucking fashionista prick
So coy, what a winner, what a goddamn man
Then there’s a musician and a spy, a director and a poet
Then there’s the rest of us, and then there’s me
Laying underneath these men and their women, looking up
All the books and masterpieces and rolls of film
And diamond rings and his tie and her skirt
They lie around me, fall around my face
Coming from their sheets as they toss around
She’s throwing her head back, her fingers clench tight on his back
I wince when she whines, her teeth may crack
Moaning juxtaposition and stanzas and negative space
Slick smiles, well I can’t blame her
Because we all claim to want one thing
When we want another.
