Meathead (War on women) I’ve given all the blood I can spare It’s coming out my cunt, running down my hair But these last few pints are mine Proof that I lived at one time Faultable Female Form Even objects get mad. Done up like a painted bird It’s a self-imposed Stockholm Syndrome And when I apply my fave lipstick is it for me or for your dick? He didn’t want me to want it, but to convince me I needed it. He is Bob, eager for fun; he wears a smile, everybody run Even objects go mad I know what I want, I know what I need And you say faultable, but I say there’s nothing wrong with me