You throw on this little act
That your a gent, and a man of class
When really you're a little boy with no morals
A coward who feeds off my horrors
Look at your wrist...
Glance at your viens...
An icey cold blue that makes you feel no pain
Or maybe the reason,
Why you feel no shame, in your pathetic ways
Your soul has gone cold
And your heart has died
Now a resting place, where the Devil lays and hides
I hope you're proud
Of what you've become
So cheers too you
And your ****** up way of "fun"