tin cup love drum song

I guess you can say in another life I was a concubine slave. An unloved mistress. Or a very talented geisha who would entertain only to give that up for the hopes of a normal life.

Perhaps a pole or belly dancer who would move only if it suited me and not to enthrall to be suggestive or flamboyant. But I am the trappings of this. My glitter particles in my DNA have moved many to call me a faggot, flamer, fairy, and even molester. I know I am not a bunch of sticks. I may be a fire sign, but I'm not made up of fire more water rather. I know I can't fly with wings. And I know I don't prey on the young. For I view them far too precious. I usually stare or look with wonder. And I do prefer grown men that can throw me around like a child never could. And honestly, I've grown tired and weary of drama. Including some of my own. The gas can is half empty.

The switch blade broke skin. And I'm full.

Beat on the drum take a swig from the tin cup. I'm full. I'm empty. I'm full.