I chase my toil   Hammering a nail against the grain of fact   I keep on bouncing back   Misinformation is passed      Look left to the right, always fight or fight   I painfully dissect, will never take as read   Yet fall back to earth as the wretch   Which suits them fucking fine      Mister pessimism, a trait we'd all rather give up   Mister pessimism, after this it comes so natural      Reserving judgment wounds me time after time   Exploitation becomes a daily grind   Take a saccharine shot, not to humor the fuckers   But the scheming scum have all bases covered   Which suits you fucking fine      From a catalog of lies, there is scant protection   So you see dependability is farce and fiction   Which suits you fucking fine