Blessed Be

As I lay me down to sleep I pray the lord for my soul to keep I also pray for a hundred blunts, a limo with a hot tub 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 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 juvenile offender Stringin' random words together 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 "Shauna, you're huge now. How do 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 center of attention Mention my pretend ascension To a height so high it requires an intervention My guy's a piece of shit but I'm an artist So I run to the tragedy that chases me the farthest Livin' for the star shit, 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 villian More litter than literal I'm the eight cylinder engine that's drillin' her I am the source of the boredom that's killin' 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, assholes 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 is incapable of caution She'll break your perfect heart Then say that 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