I couldn't tell if I was sleeping or selling my dreams for drinking.
Covered up in blanket statements, can never tell when I am awake.
So pull off the sheets and wake up on public transit.
I'll never be much of anything.
I couldn't tell if I was late, I must have taken a wrong turn along the way,
The only things left are masterbation, gold chains and real estate.
We all are vacant, we are all forfeitures, let father J.P Morgan erect his church. So save your receipts, bring them all down to me. Save your receipts nothing here is free.
Thank first world economies, fake first world economies.
People don't bleed currency, money is the new kind of morphine.
I'll never be much of anything.
Take all your receipts, bring them all down to me.
save your receipts, nothing here is free.
Take all you've known, they'll be ashes on my mantel.
All that you've learned, are cigarettes inside this urn.
Fake first world economies, always make a fool of me.
Fake fist world economies, and i was always asleep.
So pull off the sheets and wake up on public transit. I'll never been much of anything.
People don't bleed currency, but the devil don't work for free.
credits
from METH,
released October 27, 2015
Bass guitar / Vocals - Dylan Nash
Drums - Jason Hamill
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