Here it is again, my daily dose of medicine.
My orchestra of miniature violins.
Here I go again, wishing I was dead, wishing you were dead.
Wishing that these bottles could refill themselves
cause’ there’s no more free drinks in hell.

But the alcohol won’t burn for long
when all my wounds are gone.
And I'm so sick of writing songs
that creatively hide everything I’ve done wrong
Until you’re gone.

And I'm trying so hard to be upset,
but it's hard when I got no hard place to be between,
sitting on this rock with you doing what I’m supposed to.
We’ll cheers until our bottles break
over all the future mistakes that we’ll make.
So let’s go drink some more mistakes.

But the alcohol won’t burn for long
when all my wounds are gone.
And I'm so sick of writing songs
that creatively hide everything I’ve done wrong
Until you’re gone.
Until you’re gone.

And would you stand by all those things you said
with a loaded gun stuck to your head?
Well go ahead, say them again.
And would you stand by all your investments
on a game of Russian roulette?
Well go ahead and put your money where your mouth is.
Spray your bank account across these walls,
soak the floors and doors with change,
spraying oil from your veins,
knowing that you died in vain,
knowing that I stayed the same,
knowing that I quit this game
and cashed in your remains.