[VERSE I] I said fuck it— if I am ya bitch — I will show you bitch. I am all or nothing. I will take the hit. I smile wider when there is blood in it. [VERSE II] I hear the things they never say. A social acuity in every eye. They hook me to string me along — they like my pretty bitch face — when you have a pretty face — the fishers want you on display. They put you on display. [VERSE III] Call me ya bitch again. Must have thought my skin was porcelain. A sharp tickle in my abdomen. Such gentlemen. Call me ya bitch again. Keep the pressure. Call me ya bitch again. [VERSE IV] They say my bitch tits make me worth one thing. Divine calling makes the angels sing. Canarded fallacy can sanctify anything when we burn our wicked. I am a wicked bitch. Call me wicked. Make me back down. Call me ya bitch. Call me ya bitch again. [VERSE V] Scratch the scab in my brain it tickles. Picking at the logic underneath all the stupid things. This bitch is tripping over orthodoxia. An intoxicated cascade of animism, sanctified by successful imposition — but fuck it, call me ya bitch again. Degrade to discommend. See if it will make me bend. Call me ya bitch again. Call me ya bitch again. [VERSE VI] We all drift forward while looking back. I keep on bitching because I cannot go back. Never a future if all we have is past. [VERSE VII] I am the bitch in social ambiguity gazing through the glass upon your social tapestry. A social choreography with no comprehensible coherency. Just a web of independent dependency. I see them all on display. [VERSE VIII] "Look at that bitch," they say.
