| Help I think I blindfolded the chauffeur
|
| The coordinates are off track
|
| Makes one want to file a restraining order
|
| On humanity or myself
|
| Thieves like us
|
| Postulate we must
|
| In echo chambers of fermented ethanol
|
| Listen to reason as I voice my speculations
|
| With the brains of a blowup doll
|
| Hush as I spill my wayward theories
|
| I’ll stack them Pre-Raphaelite scaffolds
|
| Drag the boys back up who fell across the railing
|
| If we must, we’ll have us pinned like butterflies
|
| Framed in glass displays
|
| As we’re three sheets to the wind
|
| We got ourselves a hostage situation
|
| With well developed Stockholm syndrome
|
| There’ll be taken no negotiations
|
| Our complexions are monochrome
|
| Thieves like us
|
| Postulate we must
|
| Here, there’s no regard for tact
|
| Don’t stop drilling
|
| Perforate the willing
|
| Leave them thoroughly ransacked
|
| Hush as I spill my wayward theory
|
| I’ll stack it on Pre-Raphaelite scaffolds
|
| Drag the boys back up who fell across the railing
|
| If we must, we’ll have us pinned like butterflies
|
| Framed in glass displays
|
| As we’re three sheets to the wind
|
| Drag the boys back up who fell across the railing
|
| If we must, we’ll have us pinned like butterflies
|
| Framed in glass displays
|
| As we’re three sheets to the wind |