Woorden: Southcott. Flee The Scene. The October Tradition.

This is fleeting,
This sick, sickness I'm seaking.
With tire tread tired eyes,
A toothless smile,
You'd love, to defile.

Don't let me down.
With my ear to the ground,
I can hear the earth sigh.
At the sight of your insides,
So hide behind the lies that you so desperately tell!

Fists pummeling like cruise ships,
And motorcycle teeth,
Humming between our breaths.
And rest,
To the beat,
Of these simple streets