I hear my name on that killing floor,
Hand in hand with a Mexican whore.
Chop the bumps in a bathroom stall,
Take that stylish drink, and screw them all.
The things I do, you can't explain.
As your dress falls, all you'll do
is ask for more and I'll forget your name.
I see my reflection, a thousand times,
On that disco ball.
But I don't see you.
I don't need to do that anymore.
copyright 2015 salvador cordova
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