Loser, Loser, Loser.

You asked me why I felt that way.
That hatred I felt towards you the other day—
It’s not you; it's me.
But maybe it is you.

It's me because I have my suspicions.
For some reason, I think you’re malicious.
But not in that way.
I just think you're a sore loser.
So please go away.

It's you because of the things you do.
It makes me want to go and puke.
Plus, I'm scared.
I hope you don't feel what I think you feel.
If you do, I'm dead.

And here you are, asking me why.
Just go away, will you?

Loser, Loser, Loser.