My Saturday Night Fever Turned Into A Sunday Morning Rash Letra

I'm turned off. That repression bit's jazzercized my provocative thesis: Your ass is grass! In fact you're dead all ready, jerk off! Those mental mechanisms are just rusty cars traffic gridlocked in yourself-dazzling presumptuosness. Yawn! Isn't it just so weird? Fascinating. The more you ask the less I know. Ancient functions get reprogrammed. Tomorrow sex is just a stab for nostalgia and agendas for the future are just a twitch to rumble arousal hopes surpass audience attendance: The fees of ears for fucking.