Song | Design |
Artist | Star Fucking Hipsters |
Album | Never Rest In Peace |
It’s a simple disease yet complex with complicity | |
It’s the dying mans voice when no words can be spun | |
It’s the wrench in the cogs of the smoking machinery | |
That plows through family and friends just for fun | |
When you can’t stop a world that’s grown ill with insanity | |
And there’re no longer words to express your distrust | |
And this fucking disaster shows no rhythm or rhyme | |
That we’ve ruined it all disassembled | |
From our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed, in blood we all sign | |
Grave obligations to commit unforgivable | |
We need 600 bodies to complete this new graveyard | |
And 10,000 gallons just to drown all our rage | |
A dozen more names just to finish the headstones | |
Some bravery to get us all out of this cage | |
The bodies stack high in this tomb of society | |
And the blade in my skin always writes the best lines | |
A stony dead silence seems to cut through the scenery | |
It’s the malignant cancer we’ve created through our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed, in blood we all sign | |
Grave obligations to commit unforgivable crimes | |
Crimes, crimes of a dubious nature | |
Crimes just for quick-cash or more social stature | |
Crimes, against our own world in time | |
Wicked mistakes makes us victims of our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed |
It' s a simple disease yet complex with complicity | |
It' s the dying mans voice when no words can be spun | |
It' s the wrench in the cogs of the smoking machinery | |
That plows through family and friends just for fun | |
When you can' t stop a world that' s grown ill with insanity | |
And there' re no longer words to express your distrust | |
And this fucking disaster shows no rhythm or rhyme | |
That we' ve ruined it all disassembled | |
From our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed, in blood we all sign | |
Grave obligations to commit unforgivable | |
We need 600 bodies to complete this new graveyard | |
And 10, 000 gallons just to drown all our rage | |
A dozen more names just to finish the headstones | |
Some bravery to get us all out of this cage | |
The bodies stack high in this tomb of society | |
And the blade in my skin always writes the best lines | |
A stony dead silence seems to cut through the scenery | |
It' s the malignant cancer we' ve created through our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed, in blood we all sign | |
Grave obligations to commit unforgivable crimes | |
Crimes, crimes of a dubious nature | |
Crimes just for quickcash or more social stature | |
Crimes, against our own world in time | |
Wicked mistakes makes us victims of our own | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed | |
Design, design, designed to distrust | |
Design, design, designed to be lost | |
Designed |