stuff

Laugh with a mic dipped in

blood filled with oily boiling oil

eatin’ a mountain down to a bass stronger,

louder than banshee's metal chords.

It hurts my stomach,

my head is explodin'.

Your choice your choice.

Fight for blood.

Blood fights back and scabs over a cut,

but!

I’ll keep pickin’ pickin’ it,

Makin’ it bleed again.

Open up again.

I don’t want, I don’t want,

I don’t want to win.

I don’t like to follow.

I never want to lead.

So we just sit back

Mysteriously feeding,

feeding on the once good memories,

A valuable lesson taught by life’s down.

read the lines,

slipin’ on ice,

runnin’ like mice.

Coated like spice.