Somewhere around the valley of the rouge, pissing cheap words on handbills and riding with death. Where all the lucky ones get ruined.
When you'd rather get ruined than half eaten 'cause we're all beaten.
Rather fluent in bruises, defeated and we're all afraid but so brave.
But from womb to grave and everything in between it gets real fucking mean, and you wonder why I drink?
I wonder why we're not all drunks sunk in our dumps where nothing changes.
But at least we don't have to play.
Faces wax fact repossessed, collapsed jaws, blood-nosed faces, playing the lotto when they know they should be drinking 56, 17, 27 and 12.
Even though I bet, I cheat myself.