𝑳𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑨 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓 - 𝑷𝒐𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑴𝒆

Get Out Of Bed (And Use Your Sick Little Head)

And now even God can't save me
He can't save you either,
Were burning like technicolor under hot Hollywood suns
And we're soon going to disappear as mother Harlow taught us all

Get out of bed and use your sick little head

If my Norweigan wood was so good
Why now to I want to feel pure
Mama didn't love and daddy didn't care
But I guess that's why I was such a perfect catch in the first place

I'm not an innocent lost lamb I don't need saving
I've climbed this mountain by myself
And no shepherd can catch me now

Get out of bed and use your sick little head

Death is not the salvation you think it is
The sun rose and set for seasons after I died at a trauma driven knife
But I still crawled out of bed the next day

Are you even sorry for the way you hurt me in unimaginable ways or do I just need to fo pray?

Get out of bed and use your sick little head