Future Of The Left I Am The Least Of Your Problems
Woke in a ditch where the bitches grin to the sound of the present tense
How many sound checks can a man ignore before he turns into a shadow of himself?
I've got nothing left but an autograph and the strangest sense of doubt
I think the name belongs to me but someone else is living with it
I am the least of your problems
But I don't mind
Fell on myself with the tender touch and the shame of the indiscreet
How many hand jobs can a man enjoy till he forms into a puddle at his feet?
I got things to say in a plastic voice that I learned on the way to hell
Again the point of missing you no one else will do it for me
I am the least of your problems
But I don't mind
Draw it out as long as you can bear it
Fight it out
Fight it out
Fight it out the misery is glorious
