Flying through carefully placed rails of a narcotic’s Dream Boat Annie, I’m swimming,
Curling, crouching on some dirty fucking bathroom in a dive bar. I didn’t wash all of the shampoo out of my hair.
Slamming into the ground, into a coma from mania, drooling, dead.
Now I’m better. I’ll do a cartwheel to prove it to you. Look? Pop pills. For thrills. High and low, baby, that’s bi-la-da-dee-do-polar. Tastes like the real thing.