You have made my rhymes drunk,
And now they refuse to keep order.
You’ve squeezed me into a trunk,
And dropped me at disputed border.
Into your face I have smiled
In the lamest possible ways,
Faking perfection while
You carried on with your days.
You’ve turned me into an actress,
Sadly, a second-rate,
The type who works as a waitress,
The one whose job is to wait.