Give your hands out your pockets.
Oh no and
stop being people of pesos.
Don't do a thing.
I'm the Sam Waltz you
He's lamb at his savage door
While our so-called used man begs for more
A million dollars here, they'll never be missed
The fight of convalescence facing death does not exist
He's depending on our silence while he orchestrates our fear
If our neighbors are so satisfied,
why they coming here?
I'm going full death,
mother I I'm going full death,
mother I
Yeah,
I'm full death,
mother I Come on,
full death
He
don't
understand the modern world
He's running out of time How can he deal with the 80s,
baby?
What do you think since 1949?
Dig this Whatever money do goes south goes to the Philippines
With no indignity,
when people his own age can't afford a dream
He's got to vote, vote
Full death, mother I
He's ready to vote, vote
Full death, mother I
Come on, full death
He's full death, mother I
He's ready to vote, vote Full death, mother I
He ain't talking to the Russians.
I guess that ain't too important these days.
Everybody thinks it's good military strategy.
But half an enemy nine hundred miles away
has got every best squadron at its payroll.
Who cares as long as they stay out of sight.
There's more against all our futures, baby.
We'll find a moment in the spotlight.
Bottles.