Robot People From Hell - Dr. Acula

Fake flippers and nickel bag bitches.

Oxi cotton itches and friends turned to snitches.

Suburban superstar in your daddy’s car.

Pushin' cut yayo in your lo-cal bar.

The day came you tried to step up your game,

Featherweight prick tried to pass of a brick.

The hard way ain’t no place for a fake.

Picket white cheer smells of fresh green fear give it up.

Give it up.

Give it up.

Sheltered generation instigation frustration.

A saint like life destroyed in a night.

prescription hiding idols sedated a recitals.

Producing future generations of unkempt denial.

Don’t send a child to do a man’s work.

You’ll be living in a box six feet under the dirt.

Don’t believe everything you see on TV.

'Cause the day is gonna come when you meet somebody just like me.

Ruthless decimators devoures of youth.

No mortal coil while disposing.

'Cause this place is dark and it’s where you’ll stay.

Like so many before you in these dead in days