Tic - Helmet

The tic begins, where’s the manned end?

The climate change will never get in

Silent and strong, prepossessed

You never need to make your own mess

Weasel to me, charming to some

Loathsome and glib, habits like self love

Wearing slim fast, you carve your niche

Lean smug back and work your pitch

And all the way I’m gone

No demon race to find

You paint it up and know

That any face could lie

And all the way I’m gone

No demon race to find

You paint it up and know

That any face could lie

Affect my greatest style

What suits me best of all

I keep my pocket filled

Lean right and fall