The Prizefighters 歌词

	作曲 : Seam
	If there is one thing I can't forgive
	It's making me feel the weakest, and limp
	I should've hit you like I meant it
	But I can't hear over those words
	I'd knock you for that, and your eye's going black
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I'm onto it, I'm onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	My hook softening, as I listen
	To the hollow sound that's drumming your ribs
	I lose the grip on your neck
	When it's over, and you're gone,
	I'm sitting and crying.
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I'm onto it, I'm onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	What was that meaning, that breaking of skin
	Have I proven it, have I proven it?

	zuo qu : Seam
	If there is one thing I can' t forgive
	It' s making me feel the weakest, and limp
	I should' ve hit you like I meant it
	But I can' t hear over those words
	I' d knock you for that, and your eye' s going black
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I' m onto it, I' m onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	My hook softening, as I listen
	To the hollow sound that' s drumming your ribs
	I lose the grip on your neck
	When it' s over, and you' re gone,
	I' m sitting and crying.
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I' m onto it, I' m onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	What was that meaning, that breaking of skin
	Have I proven it, have I proven it?

	zuò qǔ : Seam
	If there is one thing I can' t forgive
	It' s making me feel the weakest, and limp
	I should' ve hit you like I meant it
	But I can' t hear over those words
	I' d knock you for that, and your eye' s going black
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I' m onto it, I' m onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	My hook softening, as I listen
	To the hollow sound that' s drumming your ribs
	I lose the grip on your neck
	When it' s over, and you' re gone,
	I' m sitting and crying.
	This kind of hate makes me sick
	But I' m onto it, I' m onto it.
	My muscles are wasted, a useless red paste of it
	Bluing the white in you, slapping your face with it.
	What was that meaning, that breaking of skin
	Have I proven it, have I proven it?

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