U.S. Bombs. War Birth. Hand Me The Downs. Zeneszám

to much pressure gonna self exlode the baggage keeps on pilen up my future dangles from the end of a rope no coat tails to sew on my coat this is jsut a fame its just a game good god above take me out now now somebody help me now now now lift me up to hand me the downs the night life heres the worst its ever been wheres my jar of glue to put away my brains this old bodys been through the mill my first memory was hate so take the blame