Counting.

Numbers, numbers everywhere, affecting me but they don’t care,
Let us count them, so much fun,
Goin higher ’til we’re done,

Twenty-two plus Twenty-two is forty-four they say,
And forty-four can make your day,
Thirty-eight is special, when talking to the devil,
But Forty-five will blast a hole to hell,

Fifty keeps repeating himself, and it’s not his birthday,
Hundred rounds in just a minute,
Make more holes so I can breathe faster,
Make more holes so I can bleed faster,

These numbers keep getting more fucked up,
More dangerous as we get higher,
And I keep missing the gauge,
Is it twelve, is it sixteen?

Sing it to me Thom, where does it go?
Everything, in its right place,
That barrel goes in the right place
Three-fifty seven and it only goes higher,

Inside out the top of my head,
With little room for error,
Only nine millimeters or so,
Don’t miss, don’t miss.

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