Subtle Follow

bills...
bills...
bills... bills...
bills...
bills...
bills...

Naw.
Dead that talk.
They will take yourself and blow in them duties.
Drain them of your butterscotch in you, and your cool arm of its groovy trick.
And run a filer through the keyholed eyed prison cells for one.
They will see infant sons as unstrung marionettes of able flesh and fathered deaths.
There will be men who have become googled in their self-preserve, surviving by the slightest might and Sysco-ing up the lining of them, so fragile in the suck of the sun.
And so you walk, predicting all possible presence in every bits.
And back from the bed to the bills, you see nothing but pit within pit within pit within pit.
An undeniable feeding on you, and more this.

When home, your wall will kill, then overkill. (over pills?)
It's only one, it's only one, it's only one.
Gone still, your gone still, you're gone.

Bills... Bills... Bills...
Bills...
Bills...

I have found this bloody key that lets the loud out.
I have found this bloody key that lets the loud out.
They will take yourself and plowman teas, drain them of their butterscotch, adieu.

And so you are predicting all possible.
And so you are two bits in bed.

From the bed to the bills you see nothing.
From the bed to the bills you see nothing.
From the bed to the bills you see nothing but pit within pit, an undeniable feeding on.
From the bed to the bills you see nothing but pit within pit within pit within pit within pit within pit...