Žodžiai dainai: Ninety Pound Wuss. Where Meager Die Of Self Interest. Junk.

The need to realize
Shot, shot, shot, blank
Staring down the barrel of my arm
Shot, shot, shot, dead
It's over drawn black
Shot, shot, shot, red
No restrictions
Sucking eyes inward, immobile
Bionic continuity
Till death do us part