They call it life in the fast lane, psyche more like a mass drain. More like spite for the last dame. Backs to the light as the cash tame. No more dance just to mash pain, The crutch stance just the mask same. I don't know much about shit, including producing that quit, so we stay conducing the writ, any time deducing through wit, as the weak infusing the hit, thus we concluding the trip. They say four more for the bars, Sad to say the objective is far, behind as we float from the scars. To reach higher: must escape from the tar. Oh that was sixteen? Shit, suggest we stick mean. Suggest the quick glean, suggest if sick, team. Suggest we pick scene, because known of which seen. The reason we stitch fiend. Your reactions itch bring, feelings your bitch scream.