Feeding Fingers
Manufactured Missing Children
Everyone is born inside of photo-booths hereWith stolen namesAnd birthdaysThat make no senseThey have to be told toFeel what they feelThese manufactured missing childrenAre really hereAnd they're innocentThey're innocentAnd not innocent at allA yellowed man in a wheelchairWon't let me sleepLaminated scrambled eggsAre all that we'll eatThis is why I goInside myselfAnd I'm innocentI'm innocentAnd not innocent at allThere is nothing left to see hereThere is nothing left to seeNothing isn't ever wrong with me
From Letras Mania