slurp slurp *bird noises*

we've turned our hands to guns trade in 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