It's a compulsion, really out of my handsTo tell you all about you making all the wrong plansBut I grind my teeth, and I'll pick at this scarAnything to make it through a night at the barLeave me with flat teeth, with fresh wounds, another nervous ticPlease leave me on the kitchen floor, with my dignity while I get sickClean me out like an open soreSay it's me that makes you a whoreGo ahead blame the moon and sun, then denyBecause that's what makes this funYou're just a symptomYou're just a symptomYou're just, you're just a symptomYou're just a symptom, you're justYou're just a symptomJust a symptomClean me out like an open soreSay it's me that makes you a whoreGo ahead blame the moon and sun, then denyBecause that's what makes this fun
