Every morning is the same,
Running aground a desperate bed.

A bitter taste of vice,
An epileptic thirst.

Liquor is my savior and in the bottle I go deeper and deeper.

Going down the drain.
The need I feel is like a slow death.

A bitter taste of vice,
An epileptic thirst.

Liquor is my savior and in the bottle I go deeper and deeper.

A whiskey suicide, this bitter taste of vice.

See also:
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107.18
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