cobra...
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
dead weight
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
|
the world gets dropped, left covered in rust
|
we'll rule it with an iron fist
|
behind a drum beat again
|
it's all over you motherfuckers
|
the moral to story is shit to a rug
|
two fingers up if judgement comes
|
and one keg stand
|
for satan
|
|
weak hearted sorry fakers,
|
in times of danger
|
they just fold up and run
|
if you are, you are
|
dead weight
|
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
dead weight
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
cobra...
|
|
infection spread like iron to rust
|
the cure for the disease
|
like chain links surrounded me
|
sometimes they are
|
|
weak hearted sorry fakers,
|
in times of danger
|
they just fold up and run
|
if you are, you are
|
dead weight
|
|
and we might just show the world
|
the hopeless anger
|
in us
|
every other day is just more time to kill we want to wake
|
to find the sound
|
in aching waves from our hearts
|
nevertheless, we're just staring at a wall
|
manners, missed conscience!
|
where are you now
|
left staring at a wall
|
|
before that sound
|
forces us to stop, drop, and run,
|
hear me now
|
or watch the bodies pile
|
|
weak hearted sorry fakers,
|
in times of danger
|
they just fold up and run
|
if you are, you are
|
dead weight
|
|
when all the monumentous
|
lecherous imitations you pull off
|
start wearing off
|
to show what you are
|
if you are, you are
|
dead weight
|
|
-----------------
|
Cold Slither II
|
| A Wilhelm Scream |
