I chase my toil

Hammering a nail against the grain of fact

I keep on bouncing back

Misinformation is passed

Look left to the right

Always fight or fight

I painfully dissect

Will never take as read

Yet fall back to earth as the wretch

Which suits them fucking fine

Mister pessimism - a trait we'd all rather

Mister pessimism - after this it comes so natural

Reserving judgement wounds me time after time

Exploitation becomes a daily grind

Take a saccharine shot, not to humour these fuckers

But the scheming scum have all bases covered

Which suits you fucking fine

From a catalogue of lies, there is scant protection

So you see dependability is force and fiction

Which suits you fucking fine