We're goin' down the road. Towards tiny cities made of ashes. I'm gonna hit you on the face. I'm gonna punch you in your glasses, oh no. . I just got a message that said.
Every sick fickle fucker. Childhood's what makes ya. Till they treat you like tundra. Weigh those opinions, more like air than lead. . Every planned occupation.
On the waydown they saw a lot they don't remember. And if you asked them how, they couldn't say how they got there. And if you want them now, you could just pull on the lever.
Everything that keeps me together is falling apart. I've got this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over. My boss just quit the job says.
Oh, noose tied myself in, tied myself too tight. . Looking kind of anxious in your cross armed stance. Like a bad tempered prom queen at a homecoming dance.