[an error occurred while processing this directive] 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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