Why don't they turn these crowds away?
I'm not in a vitrine on display
Not an ivory curiosity
Bring me my morning baguette
Bring me mulberries
I can weave this silk myself
My thumb is hard
I'm not made of ivory, not a curiosity
They think me feeble
For I was born a Queen
They think me useless
Corseted [Ornamental] charlatan
Idiots I'm iron in every tendon and crossbeam
A perfect scheme
Not mere porcelain
My fist is pulsing now
Your flesh it's desiring
Remove the veil
You'll not find me quivering
There's no modesty
In my ferocity
Where is my way out?
My way out of here?