With a wink and a nod look, we're all giving favors
There's four pale pinked boys in an accountants hand
Examples must be made, discipline must be maintained
We're all a little mad here what a joy it is to killKill all my hunger in three minutes and thirty seconds
Kill all my hunger in three minutes and thirty seconds
'Cause at the top of the world, we're all just the bottom lineSomeone's been shook red-handed
Dead stage center at the shit-grin parade
Beware, beware, beware of an aging pack of men
Who think like cats, wowAnd it ain't be part of the future
A pox on your phony kings
And all night while you slumber
You'll dream of electric sheepKill all my hunger in three minutes and thirty seconds
Kill all my hunger in three minutes and thirty seconds
'Cause at the top of the world, we're all just the bottom lineFor we may perish at the hands we must shake
Our bodies longing for the aches to escape
In the filth they'll accept is the filth
I'm dragging my belly throughFor we may perish at the hands we must shake
Our bodies longing for the aches to escape
In the filth they'll accept is the filth
I'm dragging my belly through'Cause we're being drowned out in our own fucking sound
Now the teenage brigade has opinions
And I can't get respect 'cause I'm not at the bar
And the teenage brigade has opinionsWhen I'm weak it is bleak and they're all capping me
With their cold metal clutch on us tightly
And I can't get respect 'cause I'm not at the bar
And the teenage brigade has opinionsSo get hip to recouping with youth
At the bottom of a rabbit's holeDo we all sound like this
Do we all sound like this
Songwriters
Rudy Gajadhar;Robert Darling;Kirk Huffman;Kyle O Quin;Michael Kaminsky;Nicholas NewshamPublished by
SONGS FOR BEANS;GATSBYS AMERICAN PUBLISHING Song Discussions is protected by U.S. Patent 9401941. Other patents pending.