You've lied now ten thousand times...it's show business anyhow.
You make me sick, sick, sick, sick.
Where'd you get all the attention?
Your dad's money too base to mention?
His coattails are looking word. You've had a nice ride, that's for sure.
Better thank your brain-dead clientele for all the money that you'll spend in hell.
Wanma percent of every nation, your'e the type to rise to that occasion.
Stole the race, no surprise there. The elevator always beats the stairs.
On a golf cart...wearing some uniform...bombing in the night-time...lying on tv...you make me
Lyrics submitted by pronoun
"Seconds" as written by Johanna Fateman Jocelyn Samson
Lyrics © TERRORBIRD PUBLISHING LLC
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