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TWELVE You all know her far too well. She live down at the end of the street. Skin-tight fabric, skirts so short, Panty lines, everything about her's indiscreet. She's a slut. She's a whore. She's gonna steal your man. She's a slut. She's a whore. You want her in your hand. Everybody sees her different. Piece of trash or piece of ass. But no further your opinion wanders And comes back to you alas. She's a slut She's a whore. She's gonna steal your man. She's a slut. She's a whore. You want her in your hand. You despise her, immortalize her. You'll start lies about her, justify her, Theorize her, criticize her. She's your best friend, or ex-lover. Always a woman in the end. You can't have her, or be jealous of her, You've got her pigeonholed in your mind. She's a slut She's a whore. She's gonna steal your man. She's a slut. She's a whore. You want her in your hand. She might even be a person.

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