(Fly:)
So if I fight the good fight will hairlines recede?
Will lines deepen in face to craft a look of defeat?
I feel the end is near my little Monday night whore,
My little Saturday night became a Sunday remorse.
When it's all over America,
The Godless game show heathens.
This is your life, this is your life,
At last my good friend we are even.
I know I’ll never lose an arm, never stay up staring at the phone.
I'll never rot up with disease don't you bury me and leave,
Don’t you leave me in the ground alone.
You gotta show me where it hurts, never creamate me to burn,
Never chop me up and throw me to sea.
You’ll never have to find the words they come spilling unrehearsed,
But you and I will never find that peace.