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I chase my toil
Hammering a nail against the grain of fact
I keep on bouncing back
Misinformation is passed
Look left to the right, always fight or fight
I painfully dissect, will never take as read
Yet fall back to earth as the wretch
Which suits them fucking fine
Mister pessimism, a trait we'd all rather give up
Mister pessimism, after this it comes so natural
Reserving judgment wounds me time after time
Exploitation becomes a daily grind
Take a saccharine shot, not to humor the fuckers
But the scheming scum have all bases covered
Which suits you fucking fine
From a catalog of lies, there is scant protection
So you see dependability is farce and fiction
Which suits you fucking fine
HATA BİLDİR
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