You try to tell us that image is nothing but sell it to us for the right price
The clown's toy balloons are getting no laughs
Cut loose your demons on paper and ink
Smashing that gla** and slicing your arm
Is this ironic to turn on yourself?
Wrinkled paper mutants scare them away
Something's not right here
Nothing's OK
They'd sell the blue from the sky
They'd sell the light from your eyes