We Are Not...

We’re not happy mother-fuckers, we just play them on your TV.
And we’ll drink all our sorrow, in soul-debt for tomorrow.
Send the coke to our head until we are dead,
at least then we think we are free.

And we love you,
but we’ll smoke until blue,
our heads are empty and our lungs unclean.

We’re not happy gin-soaked chokers, we just play them on your sleeve.
And we’ll drink all you spurt, deep-throat the hurt.
Love is like a fucking acid, burns until you’re cold and flaccid,
you’ll never finish us, just get dressed to leave.
(with us seeping and drenched in cum)

And we love you,
but for you our filth is no virtue,
our beds are empty, and our hearts unclean.

We’re not happy mother-fuckers, gin soaked chokers.
We just play them from your TV to your sleeve,
and we love you,
faces for the stains on our sheets.
And we love you,
like the trace-mark on an angels arm,
you’re proof of our loss, fall and harm.
And we love you,
listening to our night-side passionless bleats.

We’re not happy broken angels, we just play them when you are heavenly.
And we’ll drink all you’ve got, choke on your fucking god,
cause we’ve nothing left in our twitching heads.
And we’ll eclipse all your hearts, burn them in hope
cause we’ve nothing to live for,
nothing left on our “snow”-powdered slope.

And we’ll drink all you’ve got, choke on you fucking god,
cause we’ve nothing left but the days before our twitching death.

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