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all the old creeps crawling with their stale wine midnighter's comedown, and the strayhound calling, eight straight with not one sober round. 1-2-3-4, the loose tooth made you taste the floor, the old shopping carts fallin after me, vultures swarm so you know it's me and they're going out, they're going out. a young man's glowing with a thought of no, no, no you don't, and so you just trip, slip, smother me, it's just what the fuck that mothers me, 1-2-3-4, disease, bashed and gashed for final score, with all the dicks with tits home free, you'd have to hook line and sinker me, and they're going out.... From Letras Mania