Written by This one may need a trigger warning? Not sure.
July 21, 2026
I have no idea what happened with july 20. No clue. Anyway. What if my search for a good man is taking so long cause there aren’t any?
July 22 2026
I actually remember what happened on Monday. The cafe allowed me on their insecure web network for a 150 jmd purchase of water. It lasted an hour. They said it would cost a food item to extend for another hour.
Existing in public without a price tag is tough. What a world we made.
Exposed my laptop to cooties and paid for it. Perfect.
I am still thinking about my ‘carbin neutral strike’ typo. I don’t want to go back to no lights, no taxis or buses, no gas cooking. I will try the spin the wheel thing.
[I spin the wheel and get ‘walk.’ I’m ok with it.]
July 23 2026
This week is a walk everywhere week so i walked to a public wifi spot to record this week’s Solarpunk Presents and now I’m walking back. It was nice.
20:35
I don’t feel like transcribing so I’ve been working on a House track. I want it to be about being gay and bi etc in Jamaica. It’s sounding clunky lyrics wise so far. I’m influenced by Azealia Banks on this one. Also Beyonce Renaissance. I want to make people feel ok with themselves and free to dance. Not having to seek approval and prove they’re good or worth being around. Just free and ok with themselves.
22:00
This song is resisting being written. I’ve listened to 1991 from Azealia Banks, Divine from Goldlink, America Has a Problem and My House from Beyonce… having trouble finding something I really like and worried it might be the beat that’s not hype enough.
That said… i don’t usually rap. And i want to rap on this track. I want that house trap vibe.
Rapping is not singing. You need cadence, diction, wordplay, enough raunch to be noteworthy and memorable, enough strength in delivery to be recognized as a worthy M.C.
It’s quite the task I’ve given myself on a Thursday night.
23:16
I have made no progress and just keep biting people’s style. I suppose its a bit of hubris to be like, oh, I can rap. Maybe I can’t…
July 24 2026
00:26
I like the lyrics I finally landed on but my delivery is very valley girl and not persuasive. I can’t fake a New York accent and I can’t Caribbean it up, that’s not the genre.
I’m a bit stuck actually. Have to figure out a different way to speak to get some credibility in my delivery… I’m not sure if this is a ‘one sitting’ song. I haven’t even begun to tackle the chorus which needs to be redone to keep the dancey nature of the song.
1:02
The rapping is very 90s, ‘hip hop, te hibi,’ type… i need to mature my style a few decades. I took a break working on a different track but had trouble with the tempo and gave up. I may just try this verse once more, another rewrite. I dont usually rewrite this much. I’m doing so because I really want success for my music after getting to the bottom of all the history behind why I didn’t get as far as I should have. I’m overdue some proper success.
1:25
I’m leaving it alone for now. Will try something else. I will say, jellyfish interactions have carried on even in places where you just wouldn’t expect it to be so plain. The idea of ‘gris’ from the Stellar where you wonder, am I nuts or is this just some gaslighting. And why are the freaks coming out even when it’s not night.
I was a good witch when I witched around. But maybe witching draws out the bad ones too and they deal in ‘gris’, grey areas, until the time arrives.
All I can say is I lead a happy life away from jellyfish, it doesn’t take long to recover. But there are strange things. The shirt I never wear with an ‘adopt children’ tag. Of course, a secondhand shirt can encourage people to adopt children. But when seen from my perspective it seems a small possibility that someone who hates that I used blood magic to ward off fascism could have donated a bunch of clothes with little jellyfish stings to push me further beyond just dopamine deficient to eventually a paranoid schizophrenic person who has debilitated.
When I was at the rainbow gathering in 2023, a hippy festival, a man stated to me: ‘We’ll never stop haunting you.’
Was it a hallucination? I was at a hippie festival after all, I was super high. Or was the blood ritual I did at the gathering enough to draw him out, the most disruptive person there, and he said it because he belonged to a sort of predatory to hippies sect of people. Or was he just housing insecure and a bit unstable? Or did I make it up?
I’m an unreliable narrator. I was not taking medication regularly because I wanted to be sure I could have a natural birth and had to see what I was like off the medication to know if my child would be safe if I didn’t take the medication.
The shirt says: ‘Adopt Children.’
I remember I was intimate with someone on my phone in my room in Germany. I had said something about talking fancy instead of crude langauge. The next day my hosuemate had a shirt with the words: ‘We talk fancy’ written on it.
In the mental hospital the secondhand clothes the patients who I had most reason to speak to wore, were either red, black and white at times, or a screenprint that from a distance for example would read: ‘Caneval 2023’ but up close not. Carneval 2023 is when I saw red, black and white all over Cologne and felt like the swarm of white people all around me in red, black and white was draining my spirit, triggered due to a strange slightly racist incident with the people I was at the carnival with. Friend of the housemates. I had to leave the procession. I went to an Indian restaurant and had a chicken tikka masala.
I wrote a poem about it. Shall I share the poem? It’s something of an epic.
But first. Not because they deserve it but because I like clarity. The housemates burned books because someone had said either take the books or burn them. They had the choice. They saved some. Others they burned.
Let’s read the poem.
TIP OF YOUR TONGUE from ALEYA JOBSON
I would wake up as soon as I heard you in the hall.
That telltale cough.
It could summon me from anywhere.
Was it because I couldn’t wait to see you
Or because I was scared of you?
That conversation we had that night in various stages of undress.
I never touched your bodies but we felt so close.
The betrayal I felt when you decided to teach me a lesson,
And the added insult after, after after,
You thinking I had felt close to anyone else during that trip in the
same way…
I wonder what you thought I had to learn.
You said suffering was key to greatness
And draped Lacan proudly on your wall.
I once told you I loved everything in your room.
I lied.
I know.
I’m not so radically honest after all.
I hated that picture. I had heard bad things about Lacan… After research, he’s not so bad.
But my context then was that he represented unorthodox psychoanalytic methods.
So I hated the picture.
Because everything else was so beautiful in your room.
Even the mess.
Because your mess made me accept my mess.
But that portrait just rotted the whole thing.
But here… I just researched it and I find myself remembering what I adore about you.
You twitched
And said Death to All Daydream Killers
In your own way.
Did you mean me?
You twitched.
I didn’t run.
I’ve twitched after all.
And maybe I wanted to pay it forward so you wouldn’t run if I did it again.
Ze called me a black Nazi.
Well… For what I allowed.
Perhaps.
Because you were pretty.
Not a pretty I needed to touch.
A pretty I was happy looking at too.
Feeling comfortable and open.
After all I had been through with men
Here were men who I could see myself with, showing me a different side.
Domestic.
Whoever said homebase was safe was wrong.
Four walls can be the most cush prison
If you haven’t the strength to get up,
Get your things,
And move.
Even if your things are already packed.
How can love swirl with fear and pain in such an ugly homogeneity,
More oil and vinegar than oil and water?
I asked once upon a time
When I cared enough to know
What started it all?
What was the point in time?
No, I did not send a picture of sour oranges and star apple fruit seeds as a message.
No, I did not cry on the beach then take a picture of myself with tearstains on my cheeks and send it to you. It was just ocean water.
Yes, I drew a slurring swastika with my menstrual blood, a life-giving
blood, not a life-leeching blood, on a piece of firewood and burned it in the pyre at the full Buck Moon ceremony to rid me of you.
You burned books at me
I start spiritual revolutions at you.
…
You were the microcosm
And I do not know what your intent was.
Sadism?
School of Hard Knocks and Life Lessons?
You burned a book AT me.
Knowing my fear.
Knowing the way to disable me.
Disabling the already disabled.
You will never know lonely like a black queer migrant woman with a mental illness and dependency on medication, mentally undressed through weed-smoke-lung and without bearings in a new country, on a near deserted island, with no driving skills, in a living room, before a fire, trying to coax out the song she feels emerging; an earthsong, a song born of the celestial and terrestrial convening in a body in order to stall human annihilation if it can, whose 1, 2, 3 count is fear of rising fascism, a looming Cull.
The Earthsong was met with a book shoved into the flame in front of me.
Everything splintered there.
…
I exhausted most of my reconciliatory skills.
Because I could not name it.
What had happened.
Nothing like that had ever happened to me before.
First came the excuse.
His childhood.
Surely.
Nevermind mine.
Perhaps if I had the chance, I would use my knowledge of someone against them and act out my inner darkness for once in grand fashion.
Maybe it brings relief?
I’ll ask you if I get the chance.
The air of suffering must suckle sweetly when there are no consequences.
I could not name it though.
What was it?
You burned a book at me.
I told you almost as soon as we met;
I think you should monitor how you speak
Because you sound like an ecofascist
And that scares me.
You burned a book at me.
I asked you to elaborate on your point of view.
I said, based on your argument,
Are you an ecofascist?
You said: Yes.
Then you quickly said: No.
You burned a book at me.
It was about prostitution.
You burned a book at me.
And then everything splintered.
Who helped me survive it but the woman who introduced me to the stage
of music in the first place; a woman of the North while in the thawing
North, knows what to sing for the weather.
But then splinter.
She sang a song that felt all too much like a desertion of humanity and an adoption of ice in the heart.
Your rescue package costs too much she says.
A splinter.
Did she mean us? The duds? The anchors? The weight holding back clever, active, normals from their best lives and future?
And even if she did not mean us…
Would someone else…
Mean…
Us…?
A splinter.
She saved me that day.
Then a splinter.
Cracks, everywhere.
Spreading.
Who hates me? I can’t tell.
Is this ‘woke’ and if so how do you stop it from happening?
I once asked myself if we should tolerate intolerance.
I no longer ask it.
In the world of ideals,
The devil is seen as the embodiment of evil.
A concept made bitesize, palatable and digestible.
To deny the existence of evil
Or devil notions
Is to deny the existence of pain.
While some exist who cannot feel pain thereby proving the absurdity of our universe and the crumbling of ideals once on the physical plane,
We still have general consensus that pain, even for those who cannot feel it, usually signifies something negative.
Not good. Anti-Good.
And if the ideal of Good is embodied in the God notion,
Then not-Good, anti-Good is in the devil notion.
The devil burned in that flame.
Not for the prostitute whose absolution could be found in that book,
But for the hand that shoved anti-good ideals in the book’s wake.
For some reason I thought the fact that you saved so many other books from the flame made it ok.
I blamed myself.
I could have saved other books.
I had had time to save that book from the fireplace.
I wouldn’t have trusted my hands,
I would have probably started a housefire.
In which case I really should have reached for the book and done some damage.
Well. The flame flickered out and life went on, excuses applied and wound balmed…
I was too proud of the Earthsong to care.
I feared that you were its father today.
Which could make me hate it.
But I checked. The music was made November 21 to 23, 2022.
The picture of the flames was on November 24, 2022.
That Earthsong child is mine, subject to environment rather than direct outside catalyst.
But it anticipated some incoming sweat.
My Recording 42.m4a was named ‘Peace is Hard Won, Resourcefulness is Key.’
What did you do to give it that name?
A splinter.
Then more innocent things morphed into un-innocence.
Queens of the Stone Age playing ‘Under the Hanging Tree’
Splinter.
The annual carnival scene full of Germans cloaked in red, black and white for miles around…
Splinter.
A mobile sauna…
You said you could help me with my sauna interview series.
A callback to our fun times in the North, no?
Before I fled…
I could FEEL you locking the sauna door with me and my guest and funneling in toxic chemicals to kill me dead. It is not enough to say I imagined it. I felt what it would have been like.
Splinter.
You sang that song.
It sounded like death.
I left.
Splinter.
Surely it was over now? I could begin anew.
My best friend from back in the day.
She used to like Morrissey.
She used to take me to Belgian countryside flea markets where Nazi memorabilia was being sold by the dozen…
She brought me to Batacampf, a satirical Nazi camp during a summer music festival where I had a panic attack, not knowing what could have triggered it…
Hey. Friend.
I’m homeless. Like I was when I was younger.
Can you help me like those people did all those years ago?
Because we’re… Friends.
Is three years enough to know someone?
Splinter.
Do you know.
I once went to a theme park and got a splinter in my finger…
The splinter went into my body and came out somewhere else.
But the hole it left on my left index finger remained for years, the skin would form around the wound spot and stay mysteriously unlayered in the middle of the tiny circle.
I can’t find it now.
It healed.
Because things heal.
Was it the left finger or the right?
I can’t remember.
So yeah.
Splinters hurt a bit but they heal…
Eventually.
…
I cried a few times.
Twice in a circle of positive, healing people who I thought could be Nazis.
Twice on my own where I wouldn’t have to worry about what-ifs. I had to remind myself that the tears were for my benefit, not a weakness.
Tears leak out toxins no doubt.
That’s how the splinter gets out…
Traveling through the body.
…
We were supposed to go to a music festival together.
When small, the festival logo looked like a five-pointed swastika.
By then I was just bored of thinking about this stuff.
I changed my mind last minute and did not go with you.
You came to meet me where I was healing.
I had forgiven.
You invited me to a party.
I accepted.
We drove back into the borders of the place that once enclosed me with legal binding near to a true-blue Nazi neighbour during Covid.
He ‘heiled’ every evening in the backyard according to rumour.
I smiled and accepted your friend’s food.
We drove into the city and came to a stop. The storefront near to our connecting train station cast a shadow. Aryen’s Jeweler it was called.
Aryen’s Jeweler.
Aryen’s Jeweler.
And your friend said to you: “Endlich sind wir kein Nazis.”
“I guess we’re not Nazis after all.”
A funny joke… Surely.
Not meant for my anglophone ears.
No one spoke about the sign.
…You burned a book at me.
And when I was back in between those walls, you were the one I had no words for.
You burned a book at me.
And while I searched for what it meant…
Everything was a horror but in real time, lots of boredom in between to cushion the terror. Enough to make you forget before pushing you under again.
You hated me in that moment.
You hated me enough to want to cause pain.
I could get mad at myself for letting you get to me but that would be like getting mad at a burn wound for hurting when it is exposed and poked.
Remember what we equated pain to?
Let’s not get lost in anthropomorphism.
Dealing in the world of ideals,
A devil notion appeared.
And you grabbed it and gobbled it and spit it back out in your style.
Slick, playful, casual and self-righteous too.
Such confident wrongness that one questions oneself instead of the wrongdoer.
Or was I just too stoned and therefore your boorish ways merely seemed slick?
It existed as a thing that had happened.
Merely weeks away from the one year anniversary,
In my mother’s home,
Hard-won pity visa ticking down to nought,
Tempests and fires arising around the globe,
Earthsongs staggered and unheard,
The past recurring,
No safe place, no safe space,
Not home, not the bar, not a friend.
I’ve lost all my friends.
The last few ones due to the splinter.
Alone.
In company… But alone.
That’s why I ran to you in the first place.
You let me not feel that way.
And when it happened I just wanted to go back to before that. When I didn’t feel alone anymore and everybody was pretty and eloquent and interesting.
Because I was tired. And this bird migrates twice a year… No more.
…
The words come squashed out in a familial row as I adjust to a new medication that sends me so faint it’s as though my ghost attempted to leave my body for a short vacation and come back when everything wasn’t so fucked.
The words come.
You…
Hated me in that moment…
So hard…
It was a crime, due to its repercussions…
Hate Crime.
Hate Crime.
Hate Crime.
It was a hate crime.
The poem has a twin. It’s much shorter, don’t worry it’s much shorter.
Point of View from Aleya Jobson
The Culling Time was past. The time of shrinkage. It laid itself bare before us as the most
solemn of moments.
We felt the swell of the next Cull.
On its edge, breath bare mentholated similarity. These agreements.
Why do we help the Cull?
Why do we help our enemy as though driven mad by predatory parasites that turn the body into
its own fodder.
We shiver through the night, some of us in terror, others in muted oscillation.
We could not deny our confusion.
Had they not heard the stories?
They proceed without consulting us.
Without asking us if we care.
We desire the best.
We prepare for and in-so-doing even bring about the worst.
Approaching from judgement rather than questioning.
“What’s this? Why is it like that.”
The questions to ask.
“It does not belong.”
The judgement posed.Was it not here just as you?
Then the Cull.
The Cull.
And the klaxon roared us into silence and ostracization from tools that were necessary during a
Cull. For self-assurance and understanding.
We proceed however. Survivors. Hopefuls. Despairing. Torn.
Body.
I feel you severing.
Body.
I feel your pain.
Body.
The cries of the birds sound like alarms now.
Dear body.
Safe space.
Encasement.
Boundary.
Dear body.
When can we rest?
But really rest?
These poems aren’t perfect but I like them for what they are. Covid was a Cull it’s just that a cull implies deliberateness. Nature culls too. And I just think the way Covid did not affect children is something to pause and reflect on even for a moment.
I lived in a neighbourhood with the word ‘col’ in it while writing that poem. Then I was forced into working for a ‘call’ center. Someone warned me at one point not to answer calls from strange numbers because they can take all your address book and while I was skeptical, we don’t know what A.i can do. Perhaps this was the one whatsapp hoax that was true.
I am cautious and superstitious about using the word ‘call’ in anything, you may notice that avoidance in my language going forward, a small bit of agency to get back a hold of what I can and am able to.
Because. I also have a Harry Potter scar pain in my forehead that occured while I lost my dopamine.
My forehead would hurt a lot.
I was a good witch at the time, remember. The Harry Potter scar pain is something you can truly experience. Who knew. Perhaps J.K. Rowling experienced it herself.
A sort of focused migraine. It’s real, I’ve felt it. Likely exascerbated by furrowing one’s brow because of small jellyfish experiences adding together little by little and not being sure of what’s happening. Gris. Your brow furrows really hard even when you’re trying to relax and you have to rub it to relax the muscle.
I’m an unreliable narrator due to a diagnosis. You can dismiss it wholesale or not.
But there’s more. Some of it is just private.
I don’t wear the shirt that says: ‘Adopt children.’
2:51
I played around some more with keys but nothing’s really sticking. And I really wanna rap without sounding like a valley girl lol. It may be more than a one nighter.
I don’t feel bad about the times I have been sort of not the most woke i could be because I am a very good person. I literally have reviews on how good a person I am. The few times I’ve been tempted by Gravity are few and far between. However, I do also know how to make an impact so for example, I said something that was very mean on a school facebook group anonymously and it seemed to have repercussions, I left germany to heal and acknowledge bipolarity while the dust on it settled.
I’m such a good person that I lose vital brain chemicals when I’m not and that’s happened twice only.
These incidents also coincide with being robbed by a child/teenager. Both times. Both times there was a racist German or something racialized about a German while I’m in their country. The first time, the person I was couchsurfing with had a book about hidden messages in black music. You don’t have a book like that casually. I felt unsafe. I wanted to go to India and stop university because I was so ashamed of what I wrote and couldnt hide in my room anymore making music, I had to get fresh air but that university town was small. So India. For a spiritual journey. I posted my trip on couchsurfing and got 100 responses, 99 of which were from Indian men.
I phoned my mom, panicking, ‘I’m racist, I’m racist.’ Because I felt unsafe with all these men willing to host me, not realizing it wasn’t racist to feel unsafe… where were the women? These men, many of them, likely wanted to host me so they could sleep with me. It was undeniable evidence of the fact that when I go outside I am seen as something to conquer, a nice get, because I have a nice face and a nice figure with a bra on, not so much without in the traditional sense, so they’re gonna be disappointed anyway which makes it worse.
I was drawing from my surroundings. The man I was staying with was racist and I internalized it.
These things happen. I am still a very good person with the references to prove it.
And I am only an unreliable narrator for the fact that I smoked a lot, but I was high every single Carbon Neutral Strike update until March of 2026 so listen back and tell me if there’s an issue, and also I have a diagnosis.
You furrow your brow long enough because you feel like you’re in danger, you’ll have a Harry Potter scar pain. It doesn’t help that I’ve been to boarding school and taken O’levels. Lol.
Parallels. My song ‘Power’ at the end of my album ‘Seeker’ was the product of my hideout after the facebook group issue. That album was made from full time work. I didn’t realize the subconscious nods to Harry Potter I was making, I was just using words I liked.
There’s the album title, there’s ‘Cloak’ which was really a nod to Jordan Rakei, and there’s ‘Power’ which I omitted from thw album but is now available as a bonus clip. I associated with Harry long ago. About 8 years ago actually.
Now for the brow pain. And someone I know… someone who matters, named Harry, died some months ago.
So this is the part where it gets very upsetting and worrisome. How much should I analyze that?
You might think that somethings like these would cause your brow to furrow so much that it would hurt.
3:29
I am aware that the small question of should i go to the police occurs but I went already and they did not assist because I was dishevelled. I spoke to my counselor expressly to see if I should be going to police about anything. I am watchful is all.
3:46
I’m trying to work on this song but I just got nothing. I’m not quite sleepy, I can’t be bothered to make something new from scratch and I just can’t think of a rap, Azealia Banks’ 1991 would be perfect, it’s already been done, I can’t bite the style but it would fit. I have no idea what to do instead. Maybe one of the instrumentals.
Oh. I mean. I got a typo, ‘sins’. I lost the evidence when I erased my phone after i got hacked. After the housemates burned books, they went to the beach the next day and I didn’t go with them obviously because the trust had been shattered, I just needed to bide my time until we were back in Germany. That day on the beach, they drew the word ‘Sin’ in a heart on the sand.
This was before i lost my dopamine.
Wasn’t unreliable then. And had whatsapp evidence. All gone now. To no avail. So I furrow my brow instead.
Maybe this is an inappropriate forum. But this is what I wanted to talk about. And the poem needs background info to make full sense of it doesn’t it? I shared the poems on whatsapp and asked ppl to share. Maybe they did. I left whatsapp. I’ve got a whole ‘cool guys don’t look back at explosions’ thing going.
4:41
I would read Harry Potter at the fnac media store while housing insecure during the summers. Would just read the book and they would let me. Didn’t expect it to end up like this.
5:59
I’m ending the session now, I have the lyrics and melodies, just need a rested voice to record with.
11:13
I’ve rested. The last thing I’ll say. The chandelier at my previous house in Germany had a chandelier with the same carved face imagery as the nazi holy grail goblet. These staring faces. It could just be a Norse tradition. I could have slept in a Hitler room.
I furrow my brow.
17:13
I think i finished the song!
Test Two from Aleya Jobson
Lyrics:
Move didi move to dan de dandance
Shake she she shake in your pan pants
Take te te take your chan che chan chance
No shame in stan st sta st stan stance
Move in this dance
Catch a groove in this dance
In the mood for this dance
Feeling good in this dance
All the people that move nonstop
All the bottoms and all them tops
All them femmes and then all them butch
All them ghetto and all them stush
Put your hands in the air
Lemme see your pride
show em you dont care
Cause we’re on your side
Love on your love
And feel your joy
Who cares the love
Is just two boys
Kiss a boy, kiss a girl, you kiss a lot
Dont care what it means, it means you’re hot
Cant nobody tell you what to do
You test two
You just wanna live life innit
You just wanna be yourself no windows tinted
You dont wanna ever get dumped,
You want the best hump de hump that humpty done bumped
All the kings horses and all the kings men
Wanna put humpty with his hetero friends
Steady running you down
Walking eggshells hoping to make no sound
You really want it
And you got it
And you do it anyway
Oh yeah
[Spoken: It’s so annoying to me that people talk about ‘oh butt stuff, gross’ as if it’s not super hot to have the whole flower on show while still penetrating, as if that’s not super hot. Ok get over yourself and shut up.]
You dont really care what they say
You dont really care that youre gay
You dont really watch people talk
You just really pose and walk
When you doo wap doo wap
That thing got you caught while bop to your bop
When your love is a crime
And you do it anyway don’t care bout the time
See that you’re draped in green and gold
But your reception boy its cold
Never really doing what youre told
And thats facts
Steady on the grind
Got a lot on the line
Looking for a way to shine
Heavy on your mind
Got a whole lotta time
Not young all the while
When all the hets steal the light
Steady on the move
Gotta a whole lot to prove
Got a lot of attitude
Not really in the mood
But you look real good
Assignment understood
Kiss a boy, kiss a girl, you kiss a lot
Dont care what it means, it means you’re hot
Cant nobody tell you what to do
You test two
Confusing them hets
Got em placing them bets
Steady on the grind
Lookin for a way to shine
Girls like to have fun
Why not stay with the fun ones
Boys like to touch girls
Girls dont always come with vaginas
I’d love to know what makes you like an hourglass figure
Why, in words, is the reason
In the morning
Like its just dawning
All your night fawning
Over your crush
Cant share it
Oh you cant bear it
Why does love hurt so much
You looking so pressed
Someone’s in a dress
When they have a body part
Lookin so stressed
As if you know best
Telling people how to be
How hormones and science works
Im sure if asked
What makes hourglass
Figure stand in your mind
Im sure you would find
You’re not that inclined
To give an answer
They say they care but never dare to ask you how you feel
They say youre wrong while going on
Their own misguided way
Its easy to point
Easy to shun
Harder to ask a generation
Why are you so very yourself
You got the dance, you got the move
You got the feel, you got the groove
You got the cares they melt away
You got the beat, you got the day
You got the tight up booty shorts
You got the same sex body parts
You like yourself you like the world
You might like boys you might like girls
If the vibe aint broke
If they make you smile
If they don’t push coke
If they’re super nice
If they make you flutter
If you melt like ice
Dancing as you want
Break it down in your tight up booty shorts
You dont really love like them
You love like its at the worlds end
You love even with the threat of bars
You dont really front like them
You see you in the mirror and you say amen
You dont really
When you listen doo wap doo wap
That thing kinda sound like screw up screw up
Now we have to think it through
What’s an attractive person to do
What’s with all of this woopdeewoo
All about the person you decide to screw?
You dont wanna join you dont do that do that
You wanna dance wanna love they cant sue that sue that
Your love can be hard yeah you knew that knew that
But love is love and you know its true that true that
But try as they might, the pieces dont fit
Hormones dont lie, your love is lit
And i wonder where they get nerve
What even makes a person lust a curve?
How do emotions stir into passion?
What makes a queen just loooove fashion?
Hear ye hear ye
Looking for some style and looks thats me
Sweet like sugar like sweet iced tea
Turning up to look around at whats here to see