we all speak two languages: money and sex
with that aesthetic twang.
yeah, she's got a pretty voice;
it rings like the bell on the stock exchange floor,
soothes like the kind of love you pay for.
when he talks, dollar signs roll off his tongue;
yeah, they'd sell their souls just to hear one syllable.
we'd sooner see a man enslaved
than abandon our business practices, nice sweaters.
comfort > humanity
*possibly unfinished
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