In the sensory overload chamber massage the android until it turns on
Die once every three minutes, something to look forward to throughout your day
When people ask me my gender I just tell them brunette
Oh their brains are on peroxide, phony pride speaks only when it should’ve cried
Naifs in decay return into TV, depression stunned celebs who are suborning people who need people to get in your face
Catalog a new low and England is rife with lurchers
A jasmine chorus of mountain cur, she loves her Bowie-eyed bat faced girl
The shadow’s attempt on my life, autumn breaks it’s back for new hauntings
We saw the White Witch of Glenwood then got high and watched ourselves as re-runs
In lemon-tinted glass fans curb auto-cleft musicians to play together
Pages of sound arc Andalusian raga the bloated influencer in repose
In the part of the brain that karma allows anyone perfect to be chic
Maybe we should fight it always seems to make everything better
Forget your mind it’s not going anywhere, or it’s going everywhere, which amounts to the same thing
Graveyard pinhead straddled ghouled tears of worm for somber tuft slitherer of eternal bate, withholding naked calf brunette drowning partner
Itself’s forehead blood hiding the left hand to hovering mischief’s single dimension mis-cast imitator
Dance, tell a joke, worsen the mood
Listen to me
The ultimate purpose of white magic is to make my face gleam with seven rays of ice
Cape heaps birds of no paradise in Ganzfeld experiments
Feeding hours fulminate evil serotonin uptake inhibitors
It’s a good night to cry, I don’t have any tears left, it’s a good night to cry, I don’t have any tears left, it’s a fine night to cry
Depression eels committing thought crimes, how does it feel to be a bust?
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of Montreal Lyrics – Marijuana’s A Working Woman