Fire If I was in World War Two, they'd call me Spitfire If I was in World War Two, they'd call me Spitfire If I was in World War Two, they'd call me
Violet, it bleeds purple behind lucid eyes Negatives flash reverse of real life Promises made with India ink Bit your lip there's a flush in your cheeks
I put my trust in you and you betrayed me Took what I gave you and fuckin' raped me But you can't kill me, it's not that easy I'm still standing, still
That sweet little redhead's Got her hooks in my back She points her finger And she shows me what I lack Her pale skin, it burns so hot In the midnight
The tyrants have taken our softest dreams The tyrants have stolen our minds so it seems The tyrants music deafens undetected are our screams The tyrants
Pressure builds, ready to blow, flammable device set to explode, ire stabbing, never fades migraine fury, venemous rage, locked and loaded soon the snap
Holy smokes, she says, "burned again." holding the note to a lit cigarette to watch it all go up in flames. and she says, "he's no fireman. it's just
Pressure builds, ready to blow, flammable device set to explode, ire stabbing, never fades migraine fury, venemous rage, locked and loaded soon the
Violet It bleeds purple behind lucid eyes Negatives flash reverse of real life Promises made with India ink Bit your lip there's a flush in your cheeks
(feat. Juliette Lewis) If I was in World War Two they'd call me spitfire If I was in World War Two they'd call me spitfire If I was in World War Two
Cough up your money. Bi-curious husbands with seven-year itches. A nip and a tuck and you'll have me in stitches. I can't feel a thing, means the anesthesia
(Oh, you?re such a twisted world) So, you are the chosen one (Oh, you?re such a twisted world) So, you are the chosen? the Nobel son Forgotten son, broken
We greased our pockets with oil. Then lined those pockets with black crosses of ash. No ad space left on our foreheads. Only barcodes and ink rash. Burn
Cold metal, hard lead. Kneeling to the cock of a rifle you're fed. My big bluff baby, my middle finger-cross. My nixed. My 86'ed. My late great loss.
What do you have to be angry about? I rack your brain stem for head trauma. Spina bifida baby's first prosthetic steps. Live! via (we are made for TV
It's funny how chemo wears you down. Or how we put the lame dog down. put the lame dog down. it's funny when it's taken out to the street and shot. it
26 years in an aborting world. Mother Earth in labor. Cesarean life rips limb after limb after limb. No one knows the fucking woes of the arthropod. So
We freebased the world like a challenger explosion. And lit up the sky so the world could see. That the sleeping giant sky swats it's fly. That the farmer