June is a doodle and a series of squiggly lines
Fortnightly makeovers and elegantly presented hangover
Someday someone will write the definitive statement on how the internet ruined music
June talks of entertainment and her blood pressure rises
And she throws down what is present day and watered down
Someday someone will make the definitive statement on where it all went wrong
June feels the gradual dissolution of creation and the cliches she has been allotted
The stamp of originality fades and is no longer visible
And what they will lay down for posterity is when we were saturated with at our fingertips titillation, your appreciation and joy were much less
She has lips like greasy sausage casings
No need to document her confusion
What do I do with all my newfound free time?
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