I never thought I’d say that things were better in my day,
I never thought I’d be the hypocrite that told you to pray.
I have memories, stupid fallacies,
You were perfect then, but now you’re just a pretty disease.

You, you’re compulsive,
and I, I’m repulsive,
but if you obsess to me, then we both live.

You say you tried, well on more than one occasion I have died.
I’ll let you know when I have finished cutting pounds from my hide.
And when we’re all dead, pickled and salted,
my pain means nothing to anyone outside my head.