Boys: shoot to thrill from the hip. This time we put the "act" in action.
We've tricked the pigs into thinking that this auction is a pageant. In no
time there will be makeup on our new set of cutlery. The livestock is star
struck. They're all salivating like ravenous cartoons. Goddamn animal. You'd
better watch where you spit. Squeal like soft music. If it helps, we'll dim
the lights on the floor. Neon bulbs are the cosmetics of swine. Everybody
looks quite dazzling, trussed up in their formal attire. You'd make a great
secret if I could keep you, but we all spill our guts. We're locked and
loaded. Drip fed and bloated. Our trigger fingers snagged in the mouse trap
of the moment. Turn the lights off on us, like a moth left in the cold. In
the dark, begging for more. When the urgency strikes you, you'd better not
lose your nerve. It's the rush that the cockroaches get at the end of the
world. It's alright. There's a pail by the bed if you need one (but you're
doing just fine). When in Rome we shall do as the Romans, when in Hell we do
shots at the bar. Last call, kill it. We don't think in terms of the morning
afters, and we don't utter a single word of the night befores. In the
meantime we're just thoughtless incessant buzzing apparatus. Disillusioned
and lonelier than the last man standing. It doesn't get any better than this
so run like Hell. This is a rock and roll takeover. Living each day one
night at a time. There were mercy fucks, there was blood. You should have
been there by my side. This is passion, this is red handed denial. I have no
lover and she hasn't the prettiest eyes. Last call, kill it.
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