One Last Tasty Morsel کے بول

All the alcoholics wore t-shirts The kind that displayed their work All the trouble that we went through The kind that dug the hurt We found smiles in the sorrow To overcome the past Stretch wool across skin To irritate the rash Lay you on a bed of vomit I urge you to strike a pose Press my lips upon it strategically tear your clothes We static cling to everything I'll bite you on the cheek Slit your neck with diamond rings I'll starve you for a week Pressure cooker tiny tongues Sniveling sour puss Grandma's got that broken back cry and still you stomp your feet Seven days and seven nights toying with defeat I've felt the rush of things to come I've made my nickels shine Your trust is a bloated corpse I've come to claim what I know is mine