She walks down the streets, the beaches, and the halls.
She talks without confidence; she's lacking much "game".
She appears to be shy; she'll hardly utter her name.
But it's due to each critical fiend, who laughs as she
falls, that she drinks all the time and builds up her walls.

She lacks the perfection though she strains to achieve it.
She trembles at the thought of messing up big.She tries to conceal, and the
critics dig and they dig.
But it's due to each needless remark and show of wit that she is now high
off a joint she just lit.

She laughs and she cries when alone with close friends.
She loses all emotion, though, the second she makes a public appearance.
She puts on a fake smile, though quaking inside, knowing the delicacy of her
supporters' adherence.
But it's because of the quaking that she's now undertaking a path that leads
towards very bad ends.

The beads of sweat are dripping onto the gun from her head.
The finger and the gun's trigger are trying to bargain.
The bargain has failed and the trigger has won, and the girl of the finger
has fallen.
But due to the public, one will never now know this dead maid for anything
but her masquerade.
 
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