Psych minor says I'm not made to produce love.
Spat on the ground and fucked all of us and everyone.
When you move I splatter like a smashed guitar.
She said, I already had it all, brushed it off like a grain of salt.
And I don't want no part of it, but through the screen, though.
I don't want no part of it, so why can't I stop writing your dedication music?
And we don't need the brakes to slow down,
and I don't need headlights with you around,
And if we dump the cargo maybe we could even float.
Rope around, hold it down, you know.
And I don't give a fuck,
turn water into fact if you say it enough.
When I move you splatter like a cherry bomb -
checked the mail, got my fingers blown off.
Take this if you need a light,
gasoline to make it bright.
With the win, uranium.
We never even saw the fight.