| I wanna tell you about the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse.
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| C’mon and watch him spread his legs and birth another diva.
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| Prommageddon pit, smash hit. |
| Prommageddon, chart topper.
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| Your song is gold like the color of piss (x2)
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| The Fifth Horseman stuffs the radio (oh oh oh. oh oh)
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| with singles until it’s sick to it’s stomach. |
| (oh oh oh. oh oh)
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| He scouts the dumpsters for a cobweb guitar
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| to polish into a superstar,
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| finds the gurgle of a skeleton without love,
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| turns it into a commercial.
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| Prommageddon pit, smash hit. |
| Prommageddon, chart topper.
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| Your song is gold like the color of piss (x2)
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| He shaves his sideburns into dollar signs,
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| he mingles with the band,
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| his mustache made of vines.
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| A hot tub stuffed with gorgeous ass? |
| (We want it!)
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| Bronzed lips? |
| Mouth full of cash? |
| (We need it!)
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| A sizzling tan? |
| Life of the party? |
| (We want it!)
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| A full-length mirror for every inch of your body? |
| (We need it!)
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| And when he steals your teen heat
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| it sounds a lot like…
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| So store your songs here in the Prommageddon pit
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| because the kids are spoiled rich
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| and they don’t know shit from shit. |