Make these ends meeting the hands of the soul eaters, and the heart snatcher Consume the rest of a life torn apart by the painful feeling of letting everything passing by
Sounds like the payback for playboys and playmates whose play-rec’s life now turns into playback
From fifteen to a banished sky, we’d rather fuck the place up, than spending long years in places of death, down in the dumps
Riding iron lines, grinding neons skies Exploding tenses through space time There’s nothing we fear, Nothing we’re waiting for, Nothing we need more than a deck, a black ink cartridge belt,
- WE DON’T NEED ANYTHING MORE -
spitting cigarette burns carved in rage and drawn on pages of sand It’s the way black sheeps act and think to let this fuckin’ ship sink
We hate ourselves better than you. No, It’s wrong, what should we do