I see these plastic people, Barbie dolls.
With their dream houses and expensive cars.
And their plastic friends, at their plastic malls.
Getting “white-girl wasted” at plastic bars.
Plastic masks are completely transparent.
Such a hollow frame, there’s nothing inside.
They need plastic Kens for plastic marriage.
They only love money, such plastic wives.
But I’m plastic too, since I love these girls.
In their plastic party, life’s a child's game.
We’re just plastic kids in a plastic world.
I love plastic ones because we're the same.
We worship plastic idols, live or fake.
But it's trivial because plastic breaks.