Red Chucks Made from Sin

Red Chucks made from sin, shaved my face, uncovered my chin. Pop these pimples for these people, can’t hear my voice ’cause it’s too feeble. Getting late not getting laid, but that’s all right, I’m getting paid. Reading books while losing looks–what have you done? You’re off the hook! Refreshing pages converts to wages, wage my war as my face ages. There’s really nothing here, you see, just passing time and holding pee. Updating sucks, ideas flock to distant times you can’t get back. And when your hacks can’t get a Mac, you just sit back and rock and rock. Eat your chicken, a little smitten, come home from work, fuck–more kittens! I guess there’s mess and plenty pests for every day you can’t digest. But come, move on, and bang your head against the wall, forget the bed, forget the fall. Tie up those laces, too poor for braces, will never get out of life’s love mazes. So I just get up from my chair, brush my hair, it’s never fair. Perhaps one day I’ll see you grin, and then I’ll run and scream my scream. But when that day comes and you take the win, I’ll simply take a spin–I mean–while wearing my red Chucks made from sin.