I was passed out on the factory floor. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't
Swallow. I'm burning metal for motherfuckers. I'm making weapons for
Southern lovers. I got the fever. Metal fume fever. You might as well do
Dope. You're gonna get sick of something nasty out in the modern world.
Doubled over, what kind of cancer did you ask for? It came out of the plant
And into the sky, into your eyes, into your bones, into your homes, into
Your skin. You can't wash it off your hands.
Writer(s): Juliana Hatfield, Mikey Welsh
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