| Once upon a time you were on prime time
|
| Made the Monday lineup on Fox at 9:00, didn’t you?
|
| Your complaints and whines while defendin' crimes
|
| In your high hemlines made Gloria Steinem spit on you
|
| And all the '90s women heed your call
|
| And share your deep desire to have it all
|
| But they don’t see the way you stay so small
|
| Behind the locked door of the bathroom stall
|
| Sittin' there, hunched over and purging your last meal
|
| Ally McBeal
|
| Ally McBeal
|
| Nothing but skin and bone
|
| Just like a Kate Moss clone
|
| Without no muscle tone
|
| Like a skele-tone
|
| You can try to lie, say your metabolism’s high
|
| But I ain’t gonna buy it when you’re outsized by Ethiopians
|
| And I just can’t stand you in your damn flannel jammies
|
| Dancin' 'round, plannin' which man’ll get the grand tour of your fallopians
|
| I just don’t get what all the people see
|
| In your self-involvement and hypocrisy
|
| Your Pop-Tart feminism and cheap neuroses
|
| As I stare into the vacuum of my T. V
|
| Scratching my head and trying to understand your appeal
|
| Ally McBeal
|
| Ally McBeal
|
| Think of all the chunks you’ve blown
|
| And all the up you’ve thrown
|
| Into your porcelain throne
|
| Regurgitati-one |