Mama Monster's Hysterectomy

Kaleidoscope hair, lightning bolt eyes,
Bandstands of dramatic, it's no wonder
She hides her true identity.
She grinds and howls in the shadows,
Hiding in plain sight, her mask painted upon
Her face like a make-shift masquerade.

P-p-p-p-please spare me from the sultry slitherings,
The auto-tuned siren song, the sex-infused pandering to the masses.
The broken record that's sensationalized, the individuality
So explicit, like a moth to a flamethrower;
Forced uniquity so domineering,
A man-eater straddling an asexual,
Refusing to be ignored.

The trinkets of spirituality and the crosses adorned
Are flagrantly exhibited in flippant ceremony.
Under the guise of subtle 'worship', the only
Thing she she puts her paws up to is her own vanity.
Her own god is her mirror; her sacrilege, unapologetic and trendy.

Her lust-inducing, chameleonic hip gyrations act as hypnotic metronomes
to the club-thirsty, drink-drowned, and naevity-laced populace.
Her ovaries ooze out deception & strobe lights;
Her uterine wall is clung to by sin;
Her fallopian tubes are the roads to destruction.
She prepares to pop out another stillbirth,
And it's time for a doctor's visit.