Let the brushes puke multi-colors on your facenThe mirror grins and condones in your disgracenWrap that silver noose around your necknnApply those bling-bling manaclesnWith the shiny rocks, and the whatchacallsnBake yourself to a preferred pigmentnnStep out to your pulsating pervert audiencenTheir erections give you your round of applausennMaybe its me and my lack of common fashion sensenBut your commercial fabrics not made of substancenDrowning yourself in the table of contentsnnYour personality was made by poor foreignersnYour personality was found dead by coronersnMummify yourself in their arrogant slogansnnTake a bownDo a one-eightynShow some assnThe curtain fallsnWith your self-esteem in townnRevlons fist giving you two black eyes?nLove being embraced, eaten by your thighsnAll sedated by a drinking bingenMaybe it's me and my lack of common fashion sensenBut your fabric's not made of any substancenDrown yourself in the table of contents