Blessed Be lyrics
by Shauna Dean Cokeland
[Intro]
As I lay me down to sleep
I pray my lord my soul to keep
I also pray for a hundred blunts, a limo with a hottub, a dirt bike, and a unicorn
Hit it
SDC, blessed be
All the greasy flea market girls like me
Who were told we'd achieve the most exceptional things
Junior strawberry festival princess 2016
Dearly beloved, I like to think I'm above it
I like to think I'm the subject of all the buzz that I'm lovin'
I'm Polly Pocket but mentally iller
All of this diet vanilla cherry coke up my nose rubbin' off my concealer
But still a juvenilе offender stringin' random words togethеr
For the pleasure of the hypocritic kids
That I could never impress as a freshman
Dressed like the dead did
SDC stepped in, you'd never have guessed it
"Shauna, you're huge now. How d'you take the pressure?"
The same way I got here: by imitating Ke$ha
Bought a flashy ass car that I drive too fast to measure
And I take it to wherever they gon' put me
At the centre of attention, mention my pretend ascension
To a height so high it requires an intervention
My guy's a piece of sh*t but I'm an artist
So I run to the tragedy that chases me the farthest
Livin' for the star sh*t, snowin' on the carpet
Cart hits with the Juicy bag under my armpit
I am not a god in a biblical sense
I am the teenage girl, don't know what limits are
House party villain and litter than literal
I'm the eight cylinder engine that's drilling her
I am the source of the boredom that's killing her
I am the children that witness her spilling her drink
As she slips in a house unfamiliar
I am the moon she believes is the camera
Posing alone in delusional glamour
When there's no more party to throw
But firstly, I'm the music that pumps through the stereo
To the dudes who write the dictionary
I've got a question, as*h*les
Why's it called a victim complex if it's not complex, it's simple?
I need a neon sign, 20-30 feet wide
Advertising the eternal little martyr inside
Like, warning: artist incapable of caution
She'll break your perfect heart then say she loves you as she stomps it
Then she'll write you twenty songs that sell a hundred million copies
Win two Grammys and upon being asked who she'll acknowledge
She'll stop for a moment, clutch her trophies and think
Well, Britney Spears, Em, and my mom, that's it