i'm driving a commodore, doing a hundred along the highway
the headspins from the liquor are starting to cause me to stray
from the beaten path but that's how it was intended
i'll suspend my own life before i'm ever apprehended, get it?
i lied about the liquor, need something to forget the night
anything that'll help me mistake a stop sign for a green light
never was a religious man, in fact, i fucking hate it
but god, give me the courage to steer off this fucking embankment
or give me purpose to keep driving out to the city limits
but don't offer me solace, it's none of your fucking buisness
i'd rather a substance but i'd be asking the wrong angel
but there is a book about you where cocaine killed abel
this is the culmination of every last mistake
the point where the burn turns to a debilitating ache
and the pressure on your shoulders becomes baring weight
this anxiety and insecurity make it hard to concentrate
and the only remedy for that is either a noose or an eighth
that sounds pretty cynical and yeah, i'm lacking in faith
in a positive outcome to my cinderella story
i'm only up to the second chapter but shit, it's already boring
so that should make it apparent that i'm no george orwell
i'm merely a scholar carting messages for the mandelin cartel
and i don't write lyrics, i sorta just declassify
words of the greatest lyricists who died from being pacified
and all their prime suspects had a satisfying alibi
while i'd be on the witness stand completely fucking tongue tied
life threw me hurdles but i'm a white boy so i can't jump
seventy, take that speed bump head-first into a tree stump
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