There is a nebulous, nut-crunching non-entity in my jutting prenatal midsection.
I judge my parents for a job that I could never hope to do because I'm a spoiled ball-less freak.
It's not that I was reared wrong like they claim in every tepid, bleak Nirvana song.
It's that I happened to be born with a little shred of Satan in me that I can't quell, so let the flawless burn in hell.
It's why I never sympathize.
Its why I never ever, ever feel at home.
It's why I'm puking out placenta.
You lament the love you lost, but let the squeamish die alone.
This song makes me feel like I've had a smidgeon too much tequila.
You're really not supposed to chase poison with four full-on Red Bulls.
I've never done crystal meth, but I imagine this is what it feels like.
Oh my god, I'm going to flip out.
Oh my god, am I gonna choke and die before I even meet my daughter? Slaughter anyone who understands.
I don't need your helping hand.
To my manager and fans; this is the gist of who I am.
When you surrender your form to the digital swarm, my son, you wear the swastika.
When you piss in her mouth in your Malibu house, my boy you wear the swastika.
You eat the young and wear the swastika.
You rape the world and wear the swastika.
You suck yourself and wear the swastika.
We're bred to growl and preen and claw like paper tigers.
You can't just walk away now.
You're bred to fold and tear apart like paper tigers.
I can't just walk away now.