Pull the keys out of the bag, pick up your clothes. Find your shoes, and get your story straight on the drive home, if you can find home. And what a precious thing to do, you try to feel, you try to prove that you can make a choice if you have to. And what do you...
You get used to it. You get used to it. But baby I'm through with it. I can't take the hit. I can't handle it. I don't want that shit. You get used to it. You get used to it. Rarely slow, and never painless.
Blown out Angel City nights, unconscious days. The music plays, we try to make it last, but it flies by. Every time we die, I bleed a little. You've got your tight little red dress, tequila eyes. We're sharing lies, and meeting at our hips by the back bar. Take me to your car.
You get used to it. You get used to it. But baby I'm through with it. I can't take the hit. I can't handle it. I don't want that shit. You get used to it. You get used to it. But baby I'm through with it. I can't take the hit. I can't handle it. I don't want that shit.
Fascinated by the pain. You're born to bleed. You're built to bruise. You're always at your best when you use me; when you diffuse me. Bore myself to death again, twice in the heart, once in the head, you only show me how to abuse you; it's just what you do.
You get used to it. You get used to it. But I can tell that you're through with it. I can't take the hit. I can't handle it. I don't want that shit. You get used to it. Baby, you'll get used to it. Rarely slow, and never painless.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
