Thank god I'm pretty.

The occasional free drink I never asked for.

The occasional admission to a seedy little bar.

Invitation to a stranger's car.

I'm blessed with the ability to render grown men tongue-tied, which only means that when it's dark outside I have to run and hide. Can't look behind me.

Thank god I'm pretty.

Every skill I ever have will be in question.

Every ill that I must suffer, clearly brought on by myself. Though the cops would come for someone else.

I'm blessed.

I'm truly privileged to look this good without clothes on. Which only means that when I sing you're jerking off, and when I'm gone you won't remember.

Thank god I'm pretty.

And when a gaggle of faces appears around me, it's lucky I hate to be taken seriously.

I think my ego would fall, right through the cracks in the floor, if I couldn't count on men to slap my ass anymore.

I know my destiny's such that I must stocking and curl, so everybody thinks that I'm a fucking Suicide Girl.

Thank you god...