"Velma Did Me In"
She walks in—young, smug, fire in her thighs— Velma costume painted on like a goddamn lie. That sweater hugs tight like it knows what it's doing, And those socks climb high like they’re ready for ruining.
Short skirt, long stare, that bob swinging bold, She ain’t looking for clues—she’s hunting for souls. And I? I’m the poor bastard caught in the net, Breath hitching like a sinner who’s trying to forget.
She chews her lip like she’s bored of the room, But every sway screams bedroom and doom. "Jinkies," she mutters, all mock-innocent charm— And I’d rip through damn mountains to die in her arms.
That orange—that cursed, holy orange— Isn't just color, it’s the forge. She’s a weapon, a flame, a walking goddamn kink, And I drown in her smirk faster than I can think.
I don't see a mystery. I see temptation dressed up— Brains, curves, and a heat that won’t let up. Young thing with eyes that disarm and ignite— In that Velma getup, she is pure fight or flight.
But I ain’t running. I stay and I burn. Because when she turns? That look says you’ll never learn.
And I haven’t. I won’t. I’m hers every time. Velma’s my ruin, And I worship the crime.
