We've turned our hands to guns
traded our thumbs for ammunition
I must forewarn you,
of my disorder, or my condition
cause when the sun sets
it upsets what's left of my invested interest
interested in putting my fingers to my head.
The solution is, I see a whole room of these mutant kids
fused at the wrist
I simply tell them they should shoot at this
simply suggest my chest and this confused music, it's
obviously best for them to turn their guns to a fist.
-Twenty Øne Piløts, 'Guns For Hands'
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