Cold Slither II

cobra...

cobra...

cobra...

dead weight

cobra...

cobra...

cobra...

the world gets dropped, left covered in rust

we'll rule it with an iron fist

behind a drum beat again

it's all over you motherfuckers

the moral to story is shit to a rug

two fingers up if judgement comes

and one keg stand

for Satan

weak hearted sorry fakers,

in times of danger

they just fold up and run

if you are, you are

dead weight

cobra...

cobra...

cobra...

dead weight

cobra...

cobra...

cobra...

infection spread like iron to rust

the cure for the disease

like chain links surrounded me

sometimes they are

weak hearted sorry fakers,

in times of danger

they just fold up and run

if you are, you are

dead weight

and we might just show the world

the hopeless anger

in us

every other day is just more time to kill we want to wake

to find the sound

in aching waves from our hearts

nevertheless, we're just staring at a wall

manners, missed conscience!

where are you now

left staring at a wall

before that sound

forces us to stop, drop, and run,

hear me now

or watch the bodies pile

weak hearted sorry fakers,

in times of danger

they just fold up and run

if you are, you are

dead weight

when all the monumentous

lecherous imitations you pull off

start wearing off

to show what you are

if you are, you are

dead weight