Poems

Mary packed her bags and left home on a Christmas Eve
For sea soaked skies and dashing lads with cars
An actress orphaned by the social constructs of her art school
A victim of their esoteric rule
So pretentious that she almost thought it cool
But all you'd hear is

La, la, la, la, la

Purpose was a vague ideal that she would always talk on
Till she fell in love with the salesman from TV
Yeah, she fell in love with a salesman from TV
While all of Hollywood sang

La, la, la, la, la

Pearly, pretty prize, and a ribbon box of sighs
In a collared shirt
She thought it wouldn't hurt
Certain love of mine with the palest blue eyes
In a collared shirt
I thought it couldn't hurt
Wood flavored kiss taste the concrete of this
It really fucked with me, it really fucked with me
California eyes are a death witch from design
You really fucked with me

La, la, la, la, la