Skilled, professional teams have created,
In magnificent sweatshops,
This gold-plated plastic gangster
With a car crash for a soul
Keep the motor running
Let the good times roll
On over the precipice
My life came flat-packed
Inside, it's falling to pieces
But the surface remains intact
At the drive-in with a car crash for a soul
You call this a party?
It feels like a funeral
And we thought we'd died alone
These braindead functions never felt like fun
And now's the time for us to say,
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