The tic begins where’s the manned end?
the climate change will never get in
silent and strong and prepossessed
you never need to make your own mess
Weasel to me in charming to some
loathsome and glib
habits like self-love
wearing slim fast you carve your niche
lean smug back and work your pitch
And all the way i’m gone, no
demon race to find
you paint it up and know that
any face can lie
affect my greatest style, what
suits me best of all
keep my pocket filled, lean right and
fall