One, two, three, four

The self-proved perfection of the Antichrist
He drives a man in himself and he's felt blamed twice

And if he screams in the end when he sees what he's done
The shadow of his cause will block him out the sun

He scrambled for tickets on a dead-end ride
A standing room only and the price was high

Every fool is hoping for the consolation prize
To get to be the prick to stick a knife in his side
To get to bе the prick to stick a knife in his side