Fastfood Widow

My stomach
Dance wobbly
Tiny folds of skin
It’s my own fault
And his fault and love

I want fries
And meat
With a bun, soft and sweet
I don’t like bread made out of cauliflowers, flowers

Fastfood widow is who I am
Can’t do anything
I'm going for some glans

Doesn’t help
Making love
Exercise and stuff
It’s my own fault
And his fault and love

I want to smoke and soar
Lay down, on the floor
I don’t like running 3 times a week
In an hour, an hour
I want to smoke and soar
Lay down, on the floor
I don’t like running 3 times a week
In an hour, an hour