I chase my toil Hammering a nail against the grain of fact I keep on bouncing back Misinformation is passed Look left to the right Always fight or fight I painfully dissect Will never take as read Yet fall back to earth as the wretch Which suits them fucking fine Mister pessimism - a trait we'd all rather Mister pessimism - after this it comes so natural Reserving judgement wounds me time after time Exploitation becomes a daily grind Take a saccharine shot, not to humour these fuckers But the scheming scum have all bases covered Which suits you fucking fine From a catalogue of lies, there is scant protection So you see dependability is force and fiction Which suits you fucking fine
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