Is It Me or Is the Jiminy Cricket/Songstress Accompanying the Fallen Woman Hot?

It's seven o'clock in the morning, and you're holding your high heels.
You've got a bad hangover that your head feels.
You've got to walk thirty blocks in your halter top.

You've lost all your pride, girl.
You ain't got no right to go walk on the Walk of Shame
Still can't remember his name.

You hope he lost your number, that he used a rubber.
Walk, walk, walk of shame.

Remember that guy with the lazy eye who dancing so close,
The one with the that banana in his pocket that your friends said was really gross.
Well, you let him buy you another Mai Tai, and then you showed him your boobs.
Now, you're walking home thinking about quitting drinking and you're singing yourself this tune.

You've lost all your pride, girl.
You ain't got no right.
Walk, walk, walk of shame.
Still can't remember his name.

It's a cold and lonely morning, people driving by and pointing.
Walk, walk, walk of shame …

Girl, you should go to church.
You should call your mother.
Have a good cry.

Listen, I've got something to say to you:
“You're a whore, you're a whore, you're a dirty, filthy whore…”

Back in my day—back before there were power drinks to ennoble and empower and lead the strayed flocks of the dissolute safely and proudly back to their homes the next morning, en masse, lockstep, like a gang of Jets or Sharks—this is what the Walk of Shame was really like: a slow, undignified stroll through a gauntlet of common decency and unfulfilled personal standards, baring a humiliation of such enormity that you could no longer look your penis in the eye—self-loathing and shattered morals, your only companions. No power drink could wash the experience away. Only time and, occasionally, a round of antibiotics could do that.

Oh, yes, good times, good times.