The britges
of Bridget
Don’t fit anymore
Too much of a whore
She’s become

On the britges
Of Britget
She doesn’t sit anymore
Too much of the coke has spilled to the floor

Bridget
Can only fidget 
With her hair
Its fallen out
She says just forget it

Bridget 
Now just a pidgeon
At her cage
Her claws are fiddlin’

No more steeds
Feed her seeds
From the sunflowers
No longer deeds
Are her fucks
Considered

The britges
Of Bridget
Have been sold 
For the gold
Her mind is craving
They’re engraving
Coldness 
Into her soul

The cocaine 
Is raining
Through the bars
They’re straining
Painting
Lies
Into her eyes
The pants are now sleeves

Give them back
Give them back
She pleads
She grieves

Bridget doesn’t realize
That Steve
Is really
She 
Speeding back to
Reality

All she see’s
Are the bees
Entering
The honey comb
Hung on a tree
In a yard
Her home used to be

The britges
of Britget
Are now
Rags
Fitting only midgets

On top of the building
Her head gets
Fufilling
As she reaches
For the ceiling
Above which
She is kneeling

While the bandaid
Of her life
Is peeling
The card mistress is
Redealing