Greased
Max Bemis
All the southern fried boys wind up greased
And burn to buy the west coast store the east
They tatter their clothes and drown in irony
Robbed of something young, thus incomplete
They fade into the liberal bourgeoisie
Their hatred now inflamed to stoke your daughter's screams
And ramble about Trump over Stellas
And headline Coachella
And everything they told me was wrong
Is still in my heart to turn me on
My ego is built on all my pain
I'm your migraine
I somehow became a feminist
When ten years ago I was feeding drinks
To women I'd laugh at when they'd think
Amongst my friends
It's such a lie!