Tekst:
Ninety Pound Wuss Junk

The need to realize Shot, shot, shot, blank Staring down the barrel of my arm Shot, shot, shot, dead It's over drawn black Shot, shot, shot, red No restrictions

The need to realize Shot, shot, shot, blank Staring down the barrel of my arm Shot, shot, shot, dead It's over drawn black Shot, shot, shot, red No restrictions