[Verse 1]
Got some money in my pocket
But that doesn't make a difference at all, at all, at all
This isn't fame, I'm fucking lame
I'm just boy whose tryna figure it out, it out, it out
Well maybe this is fucking it
The audience has turned against
They wanna justify the creepin' and leak my mom's home address
The paranoia rises best when your words sit inside my chest
I'm fucking human don't forget that when you're making your requests

[Chorus]
I've got my hands up, you've got your hands on your gun (Mh, mh)
Calling for backup, I'm not the only one
I've got a question, does torturing me sound fun? Oh-oh-oh-oh
Yeah, you take out your stress by punching holes out of everyone

[Post-Chorus]
Uh, uh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh, oh

[Verse 2]
Got some whiskey in my cup
But I don't think that it's enough at all, at all, at all
"This isn't me" I tell myself
I constantly worry about my health, woah-oh, oh, oh
Well maybe I should fucking try
'Cause death is creepin' right behind
I see him sitting in the corner lookin' oh so fucking sly
Anxiety is on the rise when he's constantly on my mind
I fear the day is finally coming where I meet my own demise
[Chorus]
I've got my hands up, you've got your hands on your gun (Mh, mh)
Calling for backup, I'm not the only one
I've got a question, does torturing me sound fun? Oh-oh-oh-oh
Yeah, you take out your stress by punching holes out of everyone

[Outro]
Uh, uh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh-oh-oh-oh
Oh, oh