Gave my love 2 thousand yesterdays
Nothing is wrong I am always a little late
Probably will probably won’t
Get this disease cut out of my throat
All of a sudden you come my way
Baby believer I won’t be saved by morning after Struggling my name
Slave turned to master
History moans Mouth of our father
Edge of my bed Benzedrine telephone
Struggling to speak sicker than the sickest dog falling faster that a
Liar’s grin
We need to be saved from the shit we’re in
I believe in you I have found the perfect way to bring me down
I won’t be saved
By all your yesterdays
Piss on my grave
Piss on the underlay
History moans
Mouth of our fathers
It’s the movement we’re after
