I would lay down under you, but I’ll never place myself beneath you
I watch your fan girls – your fannies – praise your every word as pure genius
(and yes, I know what a fanny is – that’s why my fictitious word dishes out justice a tedious dictionary one could never mete… I’ll let you think on that)
thinking with their twats, which is to say not at all
wanting things they’ve no right to, nor will ever get
but it strokes your ego and it sells your rags
and makes you riches
be careful who you surround yourself with
everyone needs someone who will tell them how it is
no incense to cover up malodorous and steaming piles
no shimmering, glistening coat of paint to camouflage the rust and stains
think a minute why they want you and about what it is you’re selling
is it your art or your soul
and do you even care which
are you suffering for your art
or is your art just suffering
hidden behind billows of smoke being blown up asses
this
the price of fame
© 2015 Kat Crimson
