If you say that we're ill Just give us your pill Hope we'll just go away But once you've inhaled death Everything else is perfume Maybe I'm just a mystery I could end up your misery Maybe I'm just a mystery I could end up your misery In the end we all end up in a garbage dump But I'll be the one that's holding your hand
We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured
Maybe I'm just a mystery I could be your misery Maybe I'm just a mystery Marry with the left hand So far so far from the mad'ning crowd
We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured
Am I a man or a show, or moment The man in the moon Or a man of all seasons Will I be in at the kill with you?
We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured We are sick, fucked up and complicated We are chaos, we can't be cured
We are sick
Compositores: Brian Hugh Warner, Waylon Albright Jennings ECAD: Obra #29541843