| Cobra, cobra, cobra
|
| Dead weight
|
| Cobra, cobra, cobra
|
| The world got dropped, left covered in rust
|
| We’ll rule it with an iron fist behind a drum beat
|
| Again
|
| It’s all over, you motherfuckers
|
| The moral to story is shit to a rug
|
| Two fingers up if judgment comes
|
| And one keg stand
|
| For Satan
|
| Weak-hearted sorry fakers
|
| In times of danger they just fold up and run
|
| If you are, you are
|
| Dead weight
|
| Cobra, cobra, cobra
|
| Dead weight
|
| Cobra, cobra, cobra
|
| Infection spread like iron to rust
|
| The cure for the disease, like chain links
|
| Surrounded me
|
| Sometimes they are
|
| Weak-hearted sorry fakers
|
| In times of danger they just fold up and run
|
| If you are, you are
|
| Dead weight
|
| And we might just show the world
|
| Hopeless anger in us
|
| Every other day is just more time to kill, we want a way to find the sound
|
| In aching waves from our hearts
|
| Nevertheless, we’re just staring at a wall
|
| Manners, missed conscience
|
| Where are you now?
|
| Left staring at a wall
|
| Before that sound
|
| Forces us to stop, drop, and run
|
| Hear me now
|
| Or watch the bodies pile
|
| Weak-hearted sorry fakers
|
| In times of danger they just fold up and run
|
| If you are, you are
|
| Dead weight
|
| When all the monumentous, lecherous imitations you pull off
|
| Start wearing off to show what you are
|
| If you are, you are
|
| Dead weight |