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   Mister pessimism - after this it comes so natural   Reserving judgement wounds me time after time   Exploitation becomes a daily grind   Take a saccharine shot, not to humour these fuckers   But the scheming scum have all bases covered   Which suits you fucking fine   From a catalogue of lies, there is scant protection   So you see dependability is force and fiction   Which suits you fucking fine