"Less Deicide, More Minor Threat!"
Fed a steady diet of tragedy.
It's getting hard to look away.
Content with the scraps they leave on our plate.
I'm getting sick of the taste.
Cutting and draining slowly, intravenous despair.
A quick fix of trashy bullshit.
Numb, dumb, and unaware.
Turn it off!
Writer/s: Paint It Black
