Текст песни
I don't really have too much to say
Not again, Peckham Rye, half five
Boy on the ground with his pants down, what happened to him in his past life?
What happened to him in his park side?
Roads were busy, buses passed by
I wonder who saw me, I was the last guy
Think it was Willem, said I was headed in through the poolside
Hustled the cold keys 'til 5 a.m., but all I got was swept aside
Like the pesticide in your vegetables in summertime
Like the worries of those at the worst times
Like the worries of those at the worst times
Like the worries of those at the worst times
Is my brain fried?
Woo
Not again, Peckham Rye, half five
Boy on the ground with his pants down, what happened to him in his past life?
Spilled blood from his dome in his pastime
Has it happened again? Is my brain fried?
Is the gold fine?
At least my nose ain't bent and my face sliced
And he asked for a light, when he offered a line
Fought from worst of men, but I'm glad to decline
Must've triggered something, enhanced masculine
After I push it in, self-esteem insulin
Contorts the glows at the worst times
It contorts the glows at the worst times
At the worst times
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste (a waste) of time (of time)
A waste
Jacob, Jacob, take a break, take a break, chill