(words and music by: Z. Walters)nnpreachy bout a falsehood tradencounting fingers, bout the lot you made nnonchalant don’t care look plastic smilenlaughin to the bank with shag hairstylencatch myself looking aroundnstuck in the shallow end and it’s makin me drownnlick your finger, and hold it to the skyngrab your sail man and raise it real high, causenneh, who you think you’re foolin’neh, who you think you’re foolin’nnuse it abuse it everytime I swear you bruise itngenerically rich with your musicnand tears fall when you lose itnturning you on is like a bite from a sharknbet you’d go pop cause your hollow no heartnrooftop, we’re looking downnwatching your red flowers turn brownnnhit mix, it’s your professionndon’t confuse passion with obsessionn