1. LUXURY LETDOWN

So,
You’ve got it figured out?
You think you’re happy now?
You’ll find how hard reality hits. (x2)

I used to be optimistic that my life wouldn’t fall to shit...

Now I’m pent up with all this rage,
Spotlight on my empathy,
It’s centre-stage.

So,
You’ve got it figured out?
You think you’re happy now?
You’ll find how hard reality hits.

Life’s a bitch,
And there’s no prenup,
So suck it up and fuck the world right back.

Forty-stitch in my chest,
No hits,
Burn my money, bitch.
Pay attention, right?
Where’s the lie?
You know I don’t know.

'Coz life’s so fucking shit
Taste it in my spit,
Break my fucking lungs,
And say it right,
Where’s the lie?
You know I’ll just fuckin'...

Oh, you think I write for you? (x3)

You must be deluded,
If you conceived I was thinking of...

Who do you want to see hurt?
Choke on the worms in the dirt,
And the grave your career has left.
So, you’ve got it figured out?
You think you’re happy now?
You’ll find how hard reality hits.

Swallow the bitterness,
All of my disbelief,
Brush your teeth with my seed.
My patience has finally run out,
So cut me up,
Take my skin as payment!

My patience has finally run out,
My patience has finally run out,
Death before dishonour. (x2)

So
You’ve got it figured out?
You think you’re happy now?
You’ll find how hard reality hits. (x3)

Something just feels so wrong in here,
I can’t see through this, (No, you are not yourself.)
The poison you exhume, (No, you are someone else.)
Killed off all of the beauty, (No, you are not yourself.)
That was planted here to bloom. (No, you are someone else.)

My patience has finally run out,
So talk your shit,
I ain’t got time for you.

Forty-stitch in my chest,
No hits,
Burn my money, bitch.
Pay attention, right?
Where’s the lie?
You know I don’t know.

'Coz life’s so fucking shit
Taste it in my spit,
Break my fucking lungs,
And say it right,
Where’s the lie?
You know I’ll just fuckin'...

Stick it to 'em,
Fill the body bags with these punks,
So the plastic don’t go to a waste.
Killed the game,
I arrived at the funeral just to spit in its face.
To the dead bands with their dead trends,
Tryna make ends meet,
Without a label force-feeding rotten fruit from a dying tree.