French Girl (nightcore)

She wasn’t damned
It’s a luck of faith she was born
As a French and all the glam
Of this world is meant for her.
She’s so keen
But I know that she’s really bored.
Her skin is really thin,
It merely holds all the whoredom.

CHORUS:
Cry, cry, cry French girl.
I like to see tears drip from your fine curls
Girl, girl, girl.

French girl has
Dolce Gabbana fancy dress
But her soul is a frightful mess
Dirty mess that you can’t suppress
Come and see
Don’t touch with dirty hands
How pure the soul can be
When the hate is all that it has

CHORUS

Hu-huh
Here goes the glamour
Hi, Eiffel tower
You’ll go bananas, be torn into pieces.

CHORUS: