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  • Writer's picturesin



C’est toi, c'est moi, c’est lola.

Lola, you rose up and broke the mud.

The mud, sunk down into the river.

They see you now, your done.

This air will creep on you like thousands of eyes.

This air will kiss you with their sticky fluff.

You felt the warmth from a bonfire on the seashore once;

So you keep getting plastic eyelashes to feed the flames.

Lola, be a criminal.

You oughta carve the flip side of the coin.

Your innocence,

what they praise you for,

what you do out of spite,


I see and despise it.

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