I’m wearing my best dress,
and my ex boyfriend’s bad ideas.
I like cheap cider and causing trouble,
a nightmare in nighttime glamour,
and you’ll be enamoured by the time the sun says hello.
You won’t see me in your photos,
because I’m busy being loved.
Princess of pouncing on helpless, middle aged misfortune,
and their credit cards.
Hair, higher than my IQ,
saying “How do you do?” in my sweetest, Sunday best voice,
sipping drinks I didn’t buy,
and dancing until I don’t want to die anymore.
I’m your party girl,
for a little while,
lacing your lips with my clear gloss as you boss me around,
but you’ll never take me home,
because I belong to the dance floor,
to the dance floor, and the hypnotic beats,
that fade out, as I slip out the door,
never to be seen again.