From my devil's crucifix
To the dead-rows valleys and sticks
From the shit I smell drip on my knees, drip
I wretchedly retch at the hateful itch
You can't fix this kind of sick ....

Too many drugs,
Since I was young.
Blame my madness on the two hits of govern-meant grade LSD
Acid burns, so does the opium laudanum I still drink, too
I don't mind forgetting: everything.
You can't fix this kind of sick
I have at least twenty rings
That add up to a magnetic sting
Fuck your song
Fuck your soul
Fuck your love
Fuck your hospitals
You can bring me back
Any time, I know
With this kind of SHIT
I've been diagnosed
Hearing voices
From my hateful witch neighbor
While you call me mad
For screaming out the window
H-fucked, and dying on drugs
Ready to play,
When all I want is my own game to run
You're fucked
If you think you can fix me.
Still, in the shadows of a burning figurine, and black candles,
You can't fix this kind of sick.
Still, driving stolen cars, and smoking weed.
Getting buzzed whenever I can
Ready to die at any moment
You can't fix this kind of sick
You fucking faggot
Keep on trying
Your healing attempts are homo-erotic
You can't fix this kind of sick.
You can't FIX this kind of SICK.
Forty eight, now fifty are dead.
Call me wild bill
I'll just place a fuckin hit', doc
You don't mean shit
You can't fix this kinda sick