|
Fame Throwa pass out the gold |
|
The diamond watch, the last reward |
|
All the things we had before |
|
You sold us out and took it all |
|
Head-borne cries from zenith sluts |
|
Astral rites from dead end ruts |
|
These ends are sick end wars |
|
These ends was sick end wars |
|
It's one of our nation's spies |
|
It's one of our first recruits |
|
I click with her leather thighs |
|
It's one of our first recruits |
|
How can you know |
|
In the distance lies a grower |
|
Nee Rudolph |
|
King of Fame |
|
ThrowaSon of groupie, red-worn sexan |
|
His cash convincing us |
|
That the desert was a star scape |
|
And took our lives for a |
|
Satellite so we could cry |
|
It's one of our nation's spies |
|
It's one of our first recruits |
|
I click with her leather thighs |
|
It's one of our first recruits |
