Tic

The tic begins, where's the manned end? The climate change will never get in Silent and strong, prepossessed You never need to make your own mess Weasel to me, charming to some Loathsome and glib, habits like self love Wearing slim fast, you carve your niche Lean smug back and work your pitch And all the way I'm gone No demon race to find You paint it up and know That any face could lie And all the way I'm gone No demon race to find You paint it up and know That any face could lie Affect my greatest style What suits me best of all I keep my pocket filled Lean right and fall