| Hook:
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| I’ve got this Wristband molded round my fist
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| It reads access all areas to never ending bliss
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| Check the list, I told 'em check the list
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| As we all performed our miracles in dingy clubs
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| You were at the door collecting ticket stubs
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| Shriveled up, sitting duck
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| Cuz' I’ve seen some shit that could make all your innards flinch
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| And I’ve got some friends that I can’t believe still exist
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| My mind is awash with a million images
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| So many parts to explore in this bitch
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| So I look at my life like a glistening pick and mix
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| Sugar rush, I ain’t sure what my limit is
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| He hung himself using a string of his Licorice
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| The bouncers parted like the red seas
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| I polished off my Yah Dong, garcon cheque please
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| Junkies scratching at their skin until their chest bleeds
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| You can fill a whole bulging bin bag with dead fleas
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| Hook:
|
| I’ve got this Wristband molded round my fist
|
| It reads access all areas to never ending bliss
|
| Check the list, I told 'em check the list check the list
|
| Check the account, 24p
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| Got a problem, never call me
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| When you see man skanking in silence
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| I’m just speaking in semaphore G
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| You’re afraid to die, shit that’s a waste of time
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| Drawer full o' blindfolds, ashamed of your naked eye
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| You live that heinous lie, I sat there nodding my head
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| Whiplash, heavy heart like a rock in my chest
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| Yeah I did it, i’m just immoral I guess
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| And tonight which suburb of hell should I colonise next?
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| Medieval freak to a modernised mess
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| And the gas you spout ain’t rotting my flesh
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| Yeah their ain’t no frog in my neck
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| I can’t feed you a fork full of paradise
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| I ain’t a qualified chef
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| Hook:
|
| I’ve got this Wristband molded round my fist
|
| It reads access all areas to never ending bliss
|
| Check the list, I told 'em check the list check the list X2 |