I've torn down all my walls for you to see how slowly I'm dying
With nerves marinated for seven years lying on the floor
my head's a radio fine-tuned to the worlds suffering
Pouring liquid decadence down the speaker short-circuiting my brain
A stream of decadence is flowing from my house
It drips from cracks in the ceiling, and pours down from holes in the wall
It thunders from the focets and floods the bathroom floor
And I grieve it when it leaves my house just waiting to be put in a jar

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