All they do is rinse and repeat,
Leave a heart on the floor, then sweep it neat.
Each woman tossed in the “crazy” bin,
While they play saint, parade their wins.
They wear the badge of “model men,”
With arm candy polished again and again.
Strutting like they’re society’s pride,
But burying love, innocence, and light inside.
Oh, “she’s crazy,” they’ll nod and say,
Ignoring the games they chose to play.
It’s always us left in the dark,
They stroll off, leaving the spark.
Well, call us crazy, We are done for good—
No more trust be misunderstood.
The “model men” can have their show,
We’ll keep our light, no need to glow.
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