I huddle with the ugly girls and we decide
That love is the to do of those invited inside.
So we put in our hands and vote to run and hide
Because love is a waste and a hopeful suicide,
Then grow hair trigger funny bones and laugh at drab
But beautiful stranger's jokes so as to seem less sad,
Or develop frumpy tones warning the warm of
The rough and bumpy bones keeping out the harm of love,
Because we know time wasn't and won't be on our side
We view love as a game for fickle, wandering eyes.
But, we the ugly cross our fingers with surprise,
And wear pessimistic masks as our disguise,
Because love has been inbred into our veins,
Why bother trying to steer when its wrapped around our reins?
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