Haterade Martini

Short and stout are my dimensions,
And babe I have no objections,

See I was fired in my mother’s kiln and blessed with my father’s wit,
I am perfection,
But sadly that doesn’t grab your attention,

See, your chasing the mini skirts and bared flesh,
While I’m all about t-shirts and flared pants,

I’m not the girl on the billboards,
I’m no yellow yellow and my hair’s my own,
But babe she’s got nothing on my IQ scores,

I worry and pray about my CATs,
While she frets and pouts about her zits,

But hey i might be wrong about her and I’ll take it back pretty fast,
What bugs me is why do i feel like I always come last?

So what if my face isn’t on tv?
Nigga at least with me you won’t get a VD!

You know I sat and wondered what I saw in you, damn!
I can’t believe you were once my smart-do-no-wrong-certainly-knows-best mister man?

You fed me alphabetic lies, I’m with my Boys I’ll Call u later,
Like the message template on your phone I was your disused option,
You dint love me like my Creator,

See I’m a teetotaller but im popping open this Haterade Martini,
Sipping a glass as I place a cross on the grave of your misdeeds,

And when you went on to get with your pin-up model,
I was out of that door, pumping the gas on MY hard earned Ford model.