Gave my love 2 thousand yesterdays Nothing is wrong I am always a little late Probably will probably won't Get this disease cut out of my throat All of a sudden you come my way Baby believer I won't be saved by morning after Struggling my name Slave turned to master History moans Mouth of our father Edge of my bed Benzedrine telephone Struggling to speak sicker than the sickest dog falling faster that a Liar's grin We need to be saved from the shit we're in I believe in you I have found the perfect way to bring me down I won't be saved By all your yesterdays Piss on my grave Piss on the underlay History moans Mouth of our fathers It's the movement we're after
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