Paroles de Fine Whine
Dont break my fast when I look into my bipolar routineBecause all I really want is to be the same. Lobotomy.
And when this monster makes its way from underneath my bed
Will it really want to devour me? Yes, I believe.
The lonely space that occupies my solid inquiries defined
Whoa. While the four-leaf clover stabs you
Dont wait for me to rid my senses of their brilliant lint
From all the petty things that have soiled me. Colostomy.
To tell displeasure to submit to my artistic dement
Is the very thing that reminds me of me. Similarity.
Dont hope that sadness will relinquish my fetish with early haste
The waste of a generic impromptu.
Dont touch me. Had a bad day. Just wrote a malady.
Now Ill have to reach in the pantry
Fetch myself a bag of Famous Amos.
So many names that take my place on this old quarantine
For its a habitat for the inhumane. Dont bark at me.
When I look in the mirror will I be scared
Or will I will to have a funeral for my groupies. Misogyny.
Wont have to watch the butterflies become the enterprise for my
Themes rely on pain.
Dont touch me. Had a bad day. Just wrote a malady.
Ill have to reach in the pantry.
Fetch myself some therapy.
I wont. Want a cookie?
Loser lose sleep over depressing new hits.
With all the butterflies we could have saved.
From all the petty things that have soiled me. Colostomy.
To tell displeasure to submit to my artistic dement
Is the very thing that reminds me of me. Similarity.
Dont hope that sadness will relinquish my fetish with early haste
The waste of a generic impromptu.
Dont touch me. Had a bad day. Just wrote a malady.
Now Ill have to reach in the pantry
Fetch myself a bag of Famous Amos.
So many names that take my place on this old quarantine
For its a habitat for the inhumane. Dont bark at me.
When I look in the mirror will I be scared
Or will I will to have a funeral for my groupies. Misogyny.
Wont have to watch the butterflies become the enterprise for my
Themes rely on pain.
Dont touch me. Had a bad day. Just wrote a malady.
Ill have to reach in the pantry.
Fetch myself some therapy.
I wont. Want a cookie?
Loser lose sleep over depressing new hits.
With all the butterflies we could have saved.
Paroles powered by LyricFind
