Must Be Fake


Her long dress hinted Givenchy,
a purse from D&G.
Her stilettos,
sexy and new,
were oh so Jimmy Choo.
I smiled and asked her for the time,
and Cartier caught my eye,
whispering softly,
into her ear,
I breathed in Chanel Number Five.

I can’t believe it, (believe it)
it must be fake.
I can’t believe it, (believe it)
it must be fake.
I can’t believe it, (believe it)
it must be fake.
I can’t believe it.
But what’s real anyway?

I ordered her a Dom Pérignon,
myself Rémy Martin.
Lipfinity
lips drew red glow
from her long cigarillo.
And when I asked her if she’d time,
her lingerie caught my eye.
She whispered softly,
into my ear,
“Waldorf-Astoria room six two five”.

CHORUS
But live the dream, all the way.

The door half open I let myself in,
the lights were out but-I could see
Her Givenchy,
Choo and Dior
alluring along the floor.
Victoria’s secrets were now all mine,
her naked body caught my eye.
No scars or marks,
betrayed Mang’s knife,
the perfect silicon lie.

CHORUS
But what the hell, it’s good to play.

©22.11.2011 Andrew Robert Chapman


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