[Lars]

The fact I’m from the gutter means my swag is like no other, crumbs gather in the butter as I spread it on my toast. Death’s a bed of roses compared to the excrement we’re grown in, and the scent of it’s morose. We’re kept in social coma’s while technology develops, until our heads are Motorola’s and a tomorrow’s what we’re destined where we’re in debt to Coca-Cola as we wallow in refreshment.