You’ll spend your birthdays alone and uncelebrated
win-win, no need to blow out the candles and make a wish
If Milan goes awry I wonder if you’ll think to yourself
“This is what I get” because if not you’d be remiss
God forbid something happens to the baby in a manner in which
you can’t live with yourself and now it’s your turn to “just get over the trauma”
When you wake up soiled like the very patients you’ve complained about
“Bad boy Bobby” will no longer
be a badge of honor
Your looks taken away to such an extreme that your fan base will shun you entirely
The time-sucking, money-grabbers you’ll now find yourself an enslaved whore
longing to be noticed, thirsting to be desired like before
When your words return to haunt you as the boomerang always comes back
I beg you to never shake your cup of change at me
you bitter, decomposing, poor, poor man.