We are hard-headed
Soft-blooded
Creatures of optimum opium.
Fixing and burning
Twisting and turning
For a new kind of get thick quick scheme.
We have killer instincts
Living insects
With growing limbs to stay alive.
Dead pan expressions
Taking collections
That build up a plywood lie.
We want tighter skin
American gin
Mixed with the right kind of guy.
Fucking excuses
For all of the bruises
That show us the truth in his eye.
We are craving the stage
Disguising a rave
To convince all the doctors they're wrong.
Give it a shot
Right through the brain
Showing them where they belong.
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