The one time I got my point across,
was nailing you against the wall.
The last time I you knew I was right,
was when you were hit so hard, you had to crawl.
Time to back on up,
you little whiney bitch.
I’m sick of this shit.
Can’t you hear me?
Does this make since?
I want you all to go away,
its like a mass army of cockroaches,
pouring in everyday.
You must not get laid.
Otherwise you wouldn’t be a slave.
A slave to depression and weak ass pitiful obsessions.
Its in your possession, that which you have inside,
ambition, use it, or die in vegetation.
Get the fuck away,
I mean it, I don’t want to see you today.
Leave us alone, stop preaching your quitters creed,
to us its a sickening disease.
In your face we spit.
Because I’ve already said, of your suicidal intentions, we're sick.
Because simply put, that which you write,
Its shit. |
