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Fosca
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Confused And Proud
Dear girl, you will be a boy for him tonight.
Dear girl, he only wants to see the boy in you tonight.
Do you still mooch there, still hung up on wedge hair?
Do you still mope there, falling asleep with wet hair?
All that you really want, is to know what it is you really want.
Overweight wallflower goth, brought up on the wrong side of Lowestoft.
With your crime of Being Yourself. And your punishment of Staying Yourself.
Who exactly is your type? Where exactly is your type?
Confused and proud, but you can't say it loud.
You're confused and proud, but you'll brazen it out.
Of the forty-eight genders why must you concern yourself with merely two?
Plumping for polarity in your life, as if that somehow means more clarity in life.
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And if we held a protest demonstration, we'd all march off in different directions.
Confused and proud, but it's scarcely allowed.
You're confused and proud, and thrown out of the crowd.
I didn't CHASE you, I more fell towards you.
No, I did not CHOOSE you, I just fell towards you.
And while sobriety slumbers, you and I may swap numbers.
But those dutiful digits won't be dialled. Those dutiful digits won't be dialled.
They're digits inevitably filed. They're digits to remain un-dialled.
More digits that will never be dialled. More digits just scribbled and filed.
More digits that will NEVER be dialled. More digits just written and filed.
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