Constructing drag strip coffins for unravel civilians. Whirling around, acting handless, beating on skulls for abbreviation. We are translated from the monaural sounds and turn on in sparks, to build our own lightning and punctuate the old plastic way. Complaining heads are shorting out, spilling vomit and stopping reproduction naked fumbling in the dark, painted silver for reflection. We are translated into pixels, digitized for champion knitters. Fawning fucking idiots over the monaural sound. You got your finger in the gushing hole of the bad years, it's getting everywhere and you're painting pictures with the blood. Gross.


Lyrics submitted by RecoveringPain

15 Minutes on a Forklift song meanings
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