They lay their lips,
on our feminist features,
barely even a kiss,
but it’s enough to convince them,
that they’re solid in their solidarity.
Everybody says I’m a good girl,
until they notice I’ve been seen,
in Notting Hill,
a little too often,
a little late at night.
I make history,
just by falling in love,
but love is a triviality,
that blackens your image irredeemably,