Fuck pathetic fallacy
(unless you want to count the city's raining spree
That has rendered the subway outside my office into a dark soul-less gutter)
But I have been praying for my child too
A child that will only come into existence after I am 42
Or maybe I will go to a third world country and adopt one
Just like Angelina Jolie and Madonna have done
But I have been praying HARD for my oven's future bun
Lord please make her like black-and-white still photography
And have a capacity that exceeds more than two glasses of whiskey
So she may go and make her mother proud
Let her like that band called Tool
For if she listens to Taylor Swift like me, she'll be labeled a fool
And may she be a pretentious bitch
Watch French cinema and read Russian lit
And have piercings and tattoos like the "Dragon tattoo" chick
Oh and I wish she dates a French artist and croissants are what he'll feed her
Or what 'she'll feed her' coz you know I am chill with either
I really don't want her crying for hours on the bathroom floor
Wondering why that ass didn't call
No way, she's the one who will make them beg and crawl
May she never consider "Sex And The City" to be her gospel
Because Manolo Blahnik and martinis be damned to hell
Or for that matter Gucci, and Prada and Chanel
May she be seriously successful and rolls in wads of money
Because in a rich woman's world it is always sunny
But before that part-time as a sexy bartender or a DJ
She could be a marine biologist, a poet, a stand up comedienne, pianist
Be opinionated, be bad-ass and a bra burning feminist
May she avoid all the cliche careers
I'd rather she be a talk show host like Oprah or pop star like Britney Spears
Than a doctor or an engineer
May she have self-control when faced with situations involving carbohydrates
Or better still may she be allergic to carbs to ensure a better fate
For once you enter the soft white-breaded paradise it is hard to return
Because soon those clothes will not fit you anymore
And you'll crumble when berated everyday by skinny whores
If these prayers of mine are never answered (God forbid)
And he still grants her my sucky genes instead
May she handle plumpness more gracefully than her mom did
(unless you want to count the city's raining spree
That has rendered the subway outside my office into a dark soul-less gutter)
But I have been praying for my child too
A child that will only come into existence after I am 42
Or maybe I will go to a third world country and adopt one
Just like Angelina Jolie and Madonna have done
But I have been praying HARD for my oven's future bun
Lord please make her like black-and-white still photography
And have a capacity that exceeds more than two glasses of whiskey
So she may go and make her mother proud
Let her like that band called Tool
For if she listens to Taylor Swift like me, she'll be labeled a fool
And may she be a pretentious bitch
Watch French cinema and read Russian lit
And have piercings and tattoos like the "Dragon tattoo" chick
Oh and I wish she dates a French artist and croissants are what he'll feed her
Or what 'she'll feed her' coz you know I am chill with either
I really don't want her crying for hours on the bathroom floor
Wondering why that ass didn't call
No way, she's the one who will make them beg and crawl
May she never consider "Sex And The City" to be her gospel
Because Manolo Blahnik and martinis be damned to hell
Or for that matter Gucci, and Prada and Chanel
May she be seriously successful and rolls in wads of money
Because in a rich woman's world it is always sunny
But before that part-time as a sexy bartender or a DJ
She could be a marine biologist, a poet, a stand up comedienne, pianist
Be opinionated, be bad-ass and a bra burning feminist
May she avoid all the cliche careers
I'd rather she be a talk show host like Oprah or pop star like Britney Spears
Than a doctor or an engineer
May she have self-control when faced with situations involving carbohydrates
Or better still may she be allergic to carbs to ensure a better fate
For once you enter the soft white-breaded paradise it is hard to return
Because soon those clothes will not fit you anymore
And you'll crumble when berated everyday by skinny whores
If these prayers of mine are never answered (God forbid)
And he still grants her my sucky genes instead
May she handle plumpness more gracefully than her mom did
