Insecticide

Barren, low-key, up on the shelf. I keep myself ready, dressed up to-go.
I taste like a salt lick, like a real hot lick, a mover, shaker, a man about town.
But I got nothing.
Just a pain in my ass.

I'm just a blurry face on the outside of your car.

Locked eyes in a crowd, locked lips in a cloud.

A Moaner, a talker, a walk in the parker, a cry bay-bay, baby.