So wordly is she, Her love, Greatly shared among those who could care less if she dies. Her anger, Created by those who smile at her death, Blasted towards those who want to do nothing more but kiss her tears away. And she would paint the moon yellow and green, Taint the streets with carmel and praline, Trodding the faithful soldier in Babaylon's wicked regime, Set the people on the highest pedastal, All supreme. Lower her self-esteem. But that be peoples pleaser. She's Mrs. Pretender, Always flexing Pretending! Her nay, be yay, Her stop, be go, Her dislikes, be now likes, As she smile and the sight of batty and dykes. Punching in turbos, Propping motorbikes, Tatooed and pierced, Hair glued up in spikes, And the once, what is wrong. To her, Now is alright. For this world she would fight! But that be people's pleaser. Her life is in danger. She turns her face from the One who loves her. To rest her desolate inflated lips upon the breast of the stranger. Daily she fulls herself with the milk of self-disrepect. She's a morales regect. And in the dark she bleeds tears staining her pillow, For her calm stream Has escalated to a billow. Her eyes forever flood with water, Her humiliation conceals it's face at the sight of righteousness, Her heart overflows of melancholy, And she is feeble, Easily compared to folly. Her name, No longer is dipped in the gold of righteouness, But she belongs to Caesar. She was stripped of the title Virtuous, And stamped, People's Pleaser.