This is an ode to the Indie White Boy,
Who treats women like a cheap, Love Honey sex toy,
Plays with their feelings and gaslights them too,
You think Tarantino is the pinnacle of cinema, don’t you?
And oh, the cinematography of Wes Anderson’s masterpieces;
He navigates healthy signs of affection like they’re puzzle pieces.
His ex broke his heart four years ago –
So, he just can’t commit to anyone right now, y’know?
He says he numbs his broken heart by being a relentless hoe:
“We can shag but no real feelings though?”
Rolling cigarettes and kissing you with ash tasting breath,
And choking you with hands that play the guitar badly,
You’ve always got to go to him, ‘cos your place is just too far, sadly.
He’ll put you on a pedestal,
Call you his dream girl,
You’re everything to him –
But you know he just says this on whim.
You’re nothing and you know it,
But his 90s Hugh Grant hair stops you from showing it.
Don’t try to change him cos he won’t change at all,
He won’t cave in like the hole he punched through drywall.
He thinks his mum is an angel,
But treats other women like a demon from hell.
He balances on this tightrope of love and didn’t help you up when you fell.
He’ll finger you like he’s stuffing a chicken
And have the audacity to ask if you came.
He likes to pretend he and James Dean are one and very much the same.
He won’t take you out on a real date –
But you can chill at his and watch him skate?
He’ll sleep with you too,
But don’t expect him to really love you.
So, when he stops replying,
Don’t let him know that inside, you’re kind of dying.
I’m telling you don’t try to get him back,
Cos girl, Indie White Boy’s probably got clap.
