Texty: Chemlab. East Side Militia. Pyromance.

Sink my finger in your hair, the sweat and the smell of our liquid affair,
in a gasoline burn our bodies will churn with a flick of the switch you're
plugged in to the itch...my battery got a charge with my finger triggering
your sparkplug, I felt that speedy booss when you bent down and licked my
boots heady and headed in the direction of soma crash-car intersection it's

called "why don't we do it on the road" or at least that's what I am told