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Fame Throwa, pass out the gold The diamond watch, the last reward All the things we hid before You sold us out and took it all Head-borne cries from zenith sluts Astral rites (rides) from dead-end ruts And these ends are sick-end wars And these ends were sick-end wars... He's one of our nation's spies He's one of our first recruits I click with her leather thighs He's one of our first recruits How can you know In the distance lies a grow-a Nay, rude-off, King Fame-Throwa Son of groupie, bed-worn sexan Spent his cash convincing us That the desert was a starscape Took our lives for a set of lies (satellite) So we could cry, "Naked, naked, foul!" He's one of our nation's (nature's) spies He's one of our first recruits I click with her leather thighs He's one of our first recruits... From Letras Mania