| Look at what the cat dragged in, still breathing last night’s air
 | 
| Hand shaking cause the vice never fights fair
 | 
| And you’re relating cause you struggle with the same shit
 | 
| And wrote the threat of addiction off with the same sip
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| Drowning, holding on to anything and everything around me
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| Staring down the barrel of a browning
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| Scowering, looking for any chance that allows me
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| To sip another bad taste down and devour it whole
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| Young bright and bold with a bottle for a friend and a heart full of holes
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| No diamond in a stocking full of coal
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| Never listen to the world when it told me I should slow my roll
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| It’s abusive, but never hands on a women
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| Choked a couple bottle necks and pounced when I shouldn’t
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| If the proof is in the pudding I done ate it all up
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| Instead of savoring the taste I love
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| I’m on that shit again and I don’t wanna come back down
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| I hold my broken crown in pieces
 | 
| Pour my last shot to the ground
 | 
| You’re on that shit again, trying to overload my mound
 | 
| You always chase me round in circles till I’m forced to hit the clouds
 | 
| I won’t come down
 | 
| What’s your meaning of high, huh?
 | 
| Getting lifted on a smoke cloud
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| Moderately poisoning yourself until you zone out?
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| Stick the dragon in your veins, sniffing Adderall and Cain
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| Tilt another Styrofoam cup to your mouth
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| Me? | 
| I got my own way to get up
 | 
| Starts with a rocks glass and ends with a hiccup
 | 
| And all the while I’ve been camouflaging my symptoms
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| Like I don’t do the harder drugs cause I slip up
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| Slip up — yeah that kid slipped up
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| Rehabilitated twice and skipped straight to the pub
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| I got my pops freaking out about his son
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| And I’m juggling the stress of an artist by getting drunk
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| No difference
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| I escape like the rest of them, no thought, no faith like the rest of them
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| I’ve been focusing and fighting so hard
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| That I deserve a little bit of R&R, right?
 | 
| I’m on that shit again and I don’t wanna come back down
 | 
| I hold my broken crown in pieces
 | 
| Pour my last shot to the ground
 | 
| You’re on that shit again, trying to overload my mound
 | 
| You always chase me round in circles till I’m forced to hit the clouds
 | 
| I won’t come down
 | 
| I never claimed to be a saint, shit
 | 
| I built a life off of mishaps
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| And cheers proudly to my flaws with a chipped glass
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| The sick fact is I’m happy when I’m shit-canned
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| At least a little bit, I smile like a lit candle
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| But I’m aware that I’m just blinded by the blanket of it
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| And stress doesn’t get relinquished just by drinking something
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| And I don’t know if I’m addicted to the feeling or the fact
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| That I can make a little exit without thinking of it
 | 
| Hell, I guess I’m showing all the signs huh?
 | 
| And redirecting to where alcohol defines fun
 | 
| And I’ll admit that I’ve been known to have a good time
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| But promised that I’d never cross the line
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| But never learned to draw it, call it, write it with a goal
 | 
| Make it so the night train never gets to go
 | 
| I’m as vulnerable as any of you other Joe Shmoe’s
 | 
| And got a couple little vices of my own
 | 
| I’m on that shit again and I don’t wanna come back down
 | 
| I hold my broken crown in pieces
 | 
| Pour my last shot to the ground
 | 
| You’re on that shit again, trying to overload my mound
 | 
| You always chase me round in circles till I’m forced to hit the clouds
 | 
| I won’t come down |