Sometimes I wish I could start over Another chance Not just a drug abusing lonely alcoholic But most of the time I really Don't give a fuck I used to
: You're fed up, you can't do it Close your eyes and I'll talk you through it It's too bad that your plan got red-tagged You're leaving home with your
make me pull the trigga Another reason for me to have to poor my own swigga Thought I was posing for word up but a Fed took my picture Surgeon general
... In your arms I wish to die) Burning in my chest, that wide sky of desire... Here, just me and you and my shadowy sadness With my soul already fed up
nurse the sicknesses of loss Instilled with fear and bleachy guilt Impatient winds up in her cloth The tired shoes are splitting up With weighty promises
[Bizzy Bone "Chorus in background"] Turn my vocals up.....turn my vocals up, turn'em, turn'em up, a little more Turn'em up a little more, turn'em up a
up the door with negative aura (i'm fed up fed up fed up) You say the future is murky indeed.. I'm sick of hearing your gripe Open up the door with
Who fed them with the money He earned in those black mines And the food he could raise with his hands It's a sad day in Floyd County, Mr. Jones Yeah, the grief
moment in time, when joy and pain collide. It takes a life to create a life. Now she's gone. fear and despair fills up his mind. Anger and hate. In search
True denial, Am I suicidal? As my pain mounts up I really can't tell anymore Now I am I'm left by myself Fed up by thoughts Will there be someone here
murderer the man below was a thief And I lay there in the bunk between ailing beyond belief A weary armful of skin and bone wasted with pain and grief
Dear God, The patient's best intentions have sadly faltered. Despite his newly installed, varnished brain, and being force-fed gallons of viscous demented
the worst sound Cause I don't wanna let up If you can get up I'm fed up The rhymes are sped up To mess your head up When the rhyme is over They tally
Crawling through broken glass But I feel no pain, no pain at all Fed through the grief machine Just lifelessness within my soul My trembling hands on
, On what items in my bag from your house. There's cutlery, a tablecloth, some Hennessy, And a book on Presidents deceased. I'll have them fed-exed to
red on the inside like a watermelon Everyone I grew up with patronizes me like a superhero then treats me like a villain But only vampires wear capes, only pharaohs are fed
the sicknesses of loss, Instilled with fear and bleachy guilt Impatient winds up in her cloth. The tired shoes are splitting up With weighty promises
