Goth Girls

Ummmm, hello! I was wondering: how goth is my frock?
I got a thing for horror movies and mope rock
but I can’t shock my hair up (I ran out of stock).
And just like that, Frontalot ran out of talk.
It was tragic, unheard of, never seen, me:
out of rhymes when they usually come indefatigably.
But me here talk good? No, bad talk do!
Like my tongue got encrypted right before I lost root.
Like my small talk got box-rox0red on a prior boot.
It’s moot; she only dates guys in chokes and Docs,
not brutes lacking eyeliner like I lack.
But look, I’ll put a little on, plus lip shellac,
just to stand next to that and dream about love.
Of necessity, that has always had to be enough
‘cause I can’t talk to goth girls. I just stare and stammer:
my name is MC Frimmer Frammer.
And damn her if she giggles. Damn her double if she laughs.
Goth girls like it when you double-damn it twice fast.

Goth girls, goth girls: they’re the girls that go
to see the nerdcore rapper with the geeked out flow.
At the show you can see the black lace on parade.
I met a hundred dozen of ‘em but I ain’t got laid.

Got shunned by her at the Rocky Horror premiere.
She steered clear of the nerd crowd but I heard loud in my ear
the disdain that she held for my type:
“always geeking on the computron.” I get hype
on the stage! She might notice me then and observe
that I’m “ironically hip in some flip universe.”
And her purse in patent leather held in fishnet glove
could then contain MP3 player with the Front filled up.
Her name is Nyteshaed, yo don’t call her cherry tomato.
She looks like Paisley Tinkle but poisonous like Topato.
She says her hair got attacked ‘cause it’s black and it’s blue.
She’s got a Johnny the Homicidal Maniac tattoo.
Legs all deep in the boots, boots all up on the heels —
yes, the kind to make a certain type of fetishist squeal.
The ordeal I endure: this close to her splendor
yet besieged by my shyness; try this: I surrender!
I’ll render my intentions in the usual way
(home alone, Suicide Girls up on the cathode ray).

IRL, my woman tells me that I shouldn’t be coveting.
I tell her “Yo, you better get in a coven then.”
It’s like eek, I get to sleep on the couch for a week,
all watching old Elvira videos on TV.
Yeah, hee hee hee, laugh it up. You don’t live like I do:
at the mercy of any sister with wrist scars and black eye goo.
I tried to get into some cheerleaders and failed
(Banana Repugnant and tanned, so bland and so stale).
I avail myself of the local cafe, light a clove up,
thumb through Camus (in French, which I can’t read, but so what).
I think that goth could flower in nerdcore’s embrace.
I converted Edward Gorey’s lettering into a typeface,
befriended vampires on LJ and MySpace,
even put that spooky echo filter on the bass.
But I can’t talk to goth girls. I just stare and stammer:
my name is MC Frimmer Frammer.
And damn her if she giggles. Damn her double if she laughs.
Goth girls like it when you double-damn it twice fast.

Goth girls, goth girls: they’re the girls that got
their souls stuck somewhere between the kettle and pot.
Frontalot been enamored of them since I was young
I met a hundred dozen of ‘em, never ever humped one.