Oh that cone. Do I wish it would impale me?
Drilling out— Its revving— piling more is the ground.
Oh it shone what they did. Oh it dimmed what I-oh.
In that cone electrons busy all around.
Life's a nasty dirty disease ridden whore.
With her I dabble in sadness, like the powers I abhor.
Oh that cone. Imbued in our inner decree.
Drilling out— its revving— piling more is the ground.
Oh they jump— the hoops burn. Try so hard, them they forego.
In that cone electrons busy all around.
All the freedom they see. The top is where they try to soar.
Those points up are the weakest of all.
There comes a break. I am ready to fall-al-rea-dy.
I'm just a fake. A defect toy that is gone-al-rea-dy.
Just repeat, just repeat, just repeat, just repeat here.
Blank receipt, blank receipt, blank receipt, blank receipt dear.
I can't...
Treading for the poor, the top floats on its ball.
Drilling off to find a door;
the cries drowned by a flashy sound.
The crow haunches with an empty glow.
Drilling out—it's revving— piling more is the ground
Oh that cone. Do I wish it would impale me?
Do you?