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• Artiste: Seam
• Titre: The Prizefighters
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If there is one thing I can't forgive It's making me feel the weakest, and limp I should've hit you like I meant it But I can't hear over those words I'd knock you for that, and your eye's going black This kind of hate makes me sick But I'm onto it, I'm onto it. My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it. My hook softening, as I listen To the hollow sound that's drumming your ribs I lose the grip on your neck When it's over, and you're gone, I'm sitting and crying. This kind of hate makes me sick But I'm onto it, I'm onto it. My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it. What was that meaning, that breaking of skin Have I proven it, have I proven it?