There's nothing like a good old fashioned character assassination from the ex The last month seems to have been spent fashioning a crude middle finger for her personal viewing Personally, I thought I was building a six story hotel in the future
Song bout girl, No 467
Science of a triple heart bypass
Cold sterile pebble in a little dark mineshaft beating
Keyhole surgery
Tests reveal a heap of dead canaries and the mustard gas leaking internally
Hacksaw, scalpel, suction
Watch a pulsating lump of muscle malfunction
And chew through the chest hitch hiking out of London
Numb thumbs on spaghetti junction
Ready when I pull up, set up a canteen for cannibals
A soup kitchen run by a park of deformed animals
As pureed faces in shot glasses slip into gullets and some slugish reality seems magical
Tube fed the passion, glass heart suspended in slick silver talons, so quick
Fill the chasm with these braindead slugs
Take less drugs
Cold hands slipping into latex gloves
You were just another underfed prawn
With some mummified remains in the oven kept warm
Reignite the feeling with a jug of sweat poured onto dry skin
Skewered by a double edged sword
Rubbernecking at another wreck drawnby the purge as the blood escapes
Cut the brakes
Hit and run burn rubber stop switch number plates
Blind drunk speeding to the border trying to jump the gates
Ice box chock full of shring wrapped organs
Shop soiled goods out of all four corners
And basically it seems we're benign
A tumour in remission in a state of decline
Cable tied to the table eyes vacant
Awake with a circular scar on the pavement
Dust covered boxes in a pitch black stock room
It seems we've exhausted every option
Now get out
Dive in the chest take everything
Fill the cold cavity with anything
Look deep in her eyes find everything
And spill it all on the floor like it's anything 2x