She flies to Paris, France, I come down in her childhood bed
She tries to fuck me, I pretend that I'm asleep instead
She loves pop culture, she has 'thank u, next' stuck in her head
The cursed vultures give me sourdough, my daily bread

And I wanna find out
What it's like

She is very young
And well-versed
And demanding

She knows this dance
Yeah, she knows this dance

The richest girl in every room
Mainline to the Ue Boom
She asks me

Why don't you sing with an english accent?
Well, I guess it's too late to change it now
In the rural American town fairground, I go round and I go round
Gross misunderstanding of my influences
I check my phone, and make the sound
Like theme from failure, performed for just you
Like my bare proportions un-tensed, and un-toweled

She hates every playlist she swears she made when she was fifteen
She can't believe I'm so afraid of sheets and what's in-between

It's a one-size-fits-all hardcore cyber-fetish early noughties 'zine
She sells matcha shots to pay for printing costs and a Pr team
She's sexually enlightened, and she's forward, and that fazes me
She won't give up- too soft to fuck- but how hard could it really be?

And she knows this dance
She knows this dance