Turn up the fucking static
Cause the radio says we're doomed
This is the last of the washed-out summer dreams
in the
God damn these shotgun funerals and the shit I have
ten feet deep by ten feet wide
I'm putting this year
you're blocking out the sun
dear God, there's a pulse on
Go ahead. Press the flesh with another dead televangelist. Now
Hey casting couch superstar, we got the letter and we’re
I will take what I want from you, and you
headaches keep getting worse. every plastic surgery eye that looks
it only took one bottle
two vertical lines
a pair of stress
This is the note on the brick through your window.
you might as well put the gun away. this isn't
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