Pretends, cannot touch it; can only look as I touch myself.
I know down deep, a slut’s a slut…takes one to know one I say.
Behind the leer, behind the make-up and costume,
I see little pretties, much too young for me.
Lust filled tarts of sweetness.
Pretends, will not touch it; disgusted at myself for not seeing;
disgusted for believing it real.
The older I get the harder and harder it gets to tell;
everyone wants-pretending to be a slut today.
So where’s the crime?
In me, because I cannot see?
In youth because they want-pretend it is truth?
