I did not invent the yellow-brick road

There are cults for neon orange shoelaces and in a former life, I might've been keen to pledge. A man in his greasy hot dog bun approached me and asked me for the time, but I had none to give. And there is a killer thriller black line strip down the side of my bangs, or at least there would be, if it didn't permeate and take of three quarters instead. I have this dream with a wall of mirrors and it keeps getting bigger and more distorted. I call it my future. Reinstated as the fairy princess, expulsion-expert and entrepreneur, I flew to Paris and was back before the Sabbath candles were blown out by Rabbi Joel. No, I was not taking a stab at Jews because baking is easier than knifing, if that makes conniving sense, it doesn't.

I had a sequin belt but I lost it to the cause, with those emo peace shirts and so-called 'break' scene that's still a scene so they're still scene kids, right? We're supposed to knuckle them in their brows, which reminds me of the wax I bought, but it's sitting upstairs since it isn't pleasant and altogether too difficult. I died by a rifle and for once, you were sorry, I wish it happened for real.

Once Upon an Age, with wrecked Gingerbreads and cars he drove to the rail, I saw him on a cross, trying to prevail. But as always with chicks and automobiles, He ended up under the wheels, and I never saw him again, I guess, the End, I guess.

I am the bitch of living, and I have a cardboard thinking cap to prove it.