[Verse 1] Oh Cadira, you strut like a queen, In gowns so loud they drown the scene. Pink and gold and powdered face, But none of it hides your lack of grace. [Verse 2] You flutter that fan like it’s casting a spell, But it’s mostly used to hide your yell. Your voice hits notes that make dogs cry, And nobles flinch when you walk by. [Chorus (repeat after every 2–3 verses)] Fan in hand, no plan, just pose, Powdered up from head to toes. Sing it loud, though none applaud— You’re fashion’s curse, not music’s god. [Verse 3] You claim my songs like they’re your own, But can’t write two lines without a loan. Your lyrics rhyme like spoiled stew— And half your verses smell like glue. [Verse 4] You flirt with lords both young and vain, But only if they’re rich and plain. If they’re ugly, you call for your aide— To toss them out like last year’s braid. [Verse 5] You say you’ll inherit all that’s grand, But Plez-uhns holds the upper hand. You pout and preen and stomp your feet— While she just smiles and takes the seat. [Chorus] Fan in hand, no plan, just pose, Powdered up from head to toes. Sing it loud, though none applaud— You’re fashion’s curse, not music’s god. [Verse 6] Your songs are sweet as spoiled wine, All valley squeal and no real spine. You sing of love, but never care— Unless he’s rich and has good hair. [Verse 7] You dress for war, then dine in silk, Your sleeves could drown a cow in milk. You call it “couture,” I call it “loud,” A walking tent that draws a crowd. [Verse 8] You claim your house still rules the arts, But Gurun keeps the better parts. You wave your name like it’s divine— But history’s moved, and you’re behind. [Chorus] Fan in hand, no plan, just pose, Powdered up from head to toes. Sing it loud, though none applaud— You’re fashion’s curse, not music’s god. [Verse 9] You’ve got a servant at your heel, To slap the poor who dare to feel. But kindness isn’t in your script— You’d faint if asked to lift a crypt. [Verse 10] You say you sparkle, say you shine, But all that glows is borrowed line. You’d sing this song and miss the sting— Still thinking it’s a flattering thing. [Final Chorus] Fan in hand, no plan, just pose, Powdered up from head to toes. Sing it loud, though none applaud— You’re fashion’s curse, not music’s god. [Bridge] So here’s to you, my powdered foe, With gowns that scream and fans that blow. You’ll never write, you’ll never care— But gods, you’ll always stop and stare.
