| He lives on a tightrope
|
| The tightrope of life
|
| Someday he’ll shake that rope
|
| And fall out of life
|
| Without
|
| Thinking of tomorrow
|
| Or the future to come
|
| The things that he steals
|
| For the rush that does kill
|
| The needle in his vein
|
| That takes away all his pain
|
| For now
|
| As he sits
|
| Alone at home
|
| The monkey that’s on his back
|
| Is screaming for more
|
| All he wants
|
| Is to blow out his mind so he tries so hard
|
| He loves the drug
|
| He also hates the drug for the things that he does
|
| There’s a hole
|
| In his arm, that keeps calling his name
|
| He has the spoon
|
| And the rig
|
| He clips the balloon
|
| And pours it all in
|
| Then it starts
|
| The sweat starts to pour
|
| When the target is finally made
|
| The warm rush that starts
|
| To fill in his brain with fear
|
| He thinks he’s won
|
| The final game
|
| But it comes short
|
| So he’ll try it again |