Boys=Poop

Somewhere in the trunk of your mind,
Hidden underneath your bag of secrets, your box of lies,
Your thoughts are all shattered into pieces of glass,
Each one marked with red, tasseled between your masks.
And every time you think, "Oh, what a Hollywood-whore,"
Your stapled poster-boys sing, it's her, it's her.

Oh, somewhere in the trunk of your mind,
Where loves were ripped, memories left behind,
Your thoughts are all broken into over dose pills,
Each one marked with black, gives your spine a quick chill.
And every time you think, "This isn't a Hollywood-Thrill,"
Your glued baby-girls sing, she's there, she's there.

Oh, and in the bottom, locked in the trunk of your mind,
Lies a photo of a girl-
A dream girl left behind.