You picked her up
At the mall last night,
Not demon, human-
A walking Hot Topics ad-
On daddy's credit card.
(She claims her name's Tarantula.)

Her nonstop Gothic
Teenqueen chatter
Drives you spare,
But you don't give a fuck-
It drowns out the noise
In your empty head
Better than the rain does.

Harmony in Doc Martins,
You can't be seen alone-
Not now.
Buffy's given you the sack;
What's-her-face fills the gap-
In pre-torn fishnet stockings.

So you crash Anya's wedding,
Goth-girl clings,
The rain bringing out
Her odor.
Buffy's near-
All is forgotten,
Especially whozits.

In her lime green dress,
Buffy sees right through you,
Darkchylde a pathetic mask,
The Slayer strolls away unscathed-
Leaving you alone once more,
Albatross 'round your neck.

You wander out
Into the rain-
Wanna-be asking why,
You glare down at her,
What's her name again?
Frightened, she cringes,
Sullen pose abandoned.

Nothing more than
Daddy's girl,
On Daddy's credit card,
Nameless, pointless,
A silly gesture-
She isn't what you want.

You turn away
And flee below;
Stormwater rushing by,
In the stinking darkness,
Buffy was right-
The sewers are
Where you belong.