Beat whores’ hornets’ nests with a stick, crumble them to pieces.
In fight town, they’ll bite down on your dick, for a W.A.S.P.y college thesis.
Smoke one, toke one, conclude that you’ve broken one,
stoke some fire, come play with some local dumb.
Caught with your cock on the hot spot, docked
in her pink cotton frock her daddy forgot to lock,
and sell her substances to teach her just how tough it is
to be and not to be a Bee - it’s getting stung that’s roughing it. 
Understand that problems correlate with sand
and the more there is, the fewer you’ve got on your hands,
and as you push out to the plains, you’ll plain go insane,
but, then again, the ocean drowns you anyway.

Well, I tried to be. Cry and I won’t leave.
‘Well’, I tried to be. Try and I might breathe.
I am losing steam, it seems I am losing steam.

And, in my dreams, you know me, and you say
you were supposed to show me brighter days,
but, when I die, you’ll just throw me away,
and wrap me up in lace, let me decay,
like I did, like I tried to
as a kid, like ones I lied to
about when I was alive.
Wrapping rotten fruit in gold.

Well, I tried to be. Haven’t been trying.
Dying, dying, dying, dying, dying, dying, dying.
Cry and I will leave. Cry and I will leave you be.
Just don’t die for me,
because I’m losing steam.

I must have missed the memo that I’m motherfucking hopeless.
I mean, seeing as I’m me, I thought I’d be the one to know this.
I must have missed the memo that I’m practically dead,
and if I’m suicidal, tell me, how’d you get inside my head?

I must have missed the memo that my mind is dead and gone.
I must have missed the boat all you good citizens got on.
I hear it capsized in the Arctic, you all froze to death,
and then you cursed me for surviving you with bitter final breath.

I must have fucking missed when you were pissed that I exist. 
I’d say swallow my fucking fist but that, it wouldn’t hurt like this,
but thanks for counting all my pros and cons and then counting me out.
Because you halfassed all my stitches thinking I would rip them out. 

I must have missed the day when they decided who would die.
It’s not gonna be me and I won’t ever fucking try (again). 

And, in my dreams, you know me, and you say
that writing early eulogies is a mistake.