cobra...   cobra...   cobra...   dead weight   cobra...   cobra...   cobra...      the world gets dropped, left covered in rust   we'll rule it with an iron fist   behind a drum beat again   it's all over you motherfuckers   the moral to story is shit to a rug   two fingers up if judgement comes   and one keg stand   for satan      weak hearted sorry fakers,   in times of danger   they just fold up and run   if you are, you are   dead weight      cobra...   cobra...   cobra...   dead weight   cobra...   cobra...   cobra...      infection spread like iron to rust   the cure for the disease   like chain links surrounded me   sometimes they are      weak hearted sorry fakers,   in times of danger   they just fold up and run   if you are, you are   dead weight      and we might just show the world   the hopeless anger   in us   every other day is just more time to kill we want to wake   to find the sound   in aching waves from our hearts   nevertheless, we're just staring at a wall   manners, missed conscience!   where are you now   left staring at a wall      before that sound   forces us to stop, drop, and run,   hear me now   or watch the bodies pile      weak hearted sorry fakers,   in times of danger   they just fold up and run   if you are, you are   dead weight      when all the monumentous   lecherous imitations you pull off   start wearing off   to show what you are   if you are, you are   dead weight