Her choker a cyberpunk halo, sharp as a knife. I'm Canal St. Regular. Regular. Regular, cock hard as concrete,
Her girlcock's a five-inch truth, raw and alive. We fuck on her fifth-floor altar, sweat and zines,
Her tongue a switchblade, my moans a punk machine. Post-coital cigarettes, Red Scare snark in the air,
She calls me a Thiel-funded edgelord, but I don't care. Vesper's my muse, neon-soaked gospel,
Dimes Square's filthiest tramp, chasin dolls where the freaks all get wet.