Pretty little monsters,
Stuffed into their tight jeans and mini-skirts,
Faces slathered with rouge and gloss,
Shoved up into the atmosphere by gigantic heels,
Sneering down at the “losers”,
As they happen to call us,
The kids without make-up,
Or the wrong kind,
Without the mini-skirts that are barely strips of fabric,
Yeah, the Pretty Little Monsters,
That watch your every move,
Feeding on gossip and tears,
Of which they spread, of course,
The most trivial of trivial,
Every breakup on school grounds,
Every fight,
Every plight,
All the jealousy and fright,
Why do they do it?
The Pretty Little Monsters?
They seem to have everything,
Money,
Clothes, if that matters at all,
Herds of sad, sad kids following after them,
Longing to be part of it,
If at least to escape the plagues of rumors and tears,
Until in the end,
The Pretty Little Monsters turn out not to be so pretty,
And all that’s left are the monsters,
And all that’s left of their sad, sad follower kids,
Are just sad, sad, angry dregs,
So next time you see the Pretty Little Monsters,
With their makeup slathered faces,
And sky-high heels,
Remember the sad, sad followers,
So you won’t end up being eaten,
By those Pretty Little Monsters.