gave my love 2 thousand yesterdays
  nothing is wrong
  i am always a little late
  probably will probably won't
  get this disease cut out of my throat
  all of a sudden
  you come my way
  baby believer i won't be saved by morning
  after struggling my name slave turned to
  master
  history moans
  mouth of father
  edge of my bed
  benzedrine telephone
  struggling to speak
  sicker than the sickest dog
  falling faster than a liar's grin
  we need to be saved from the shit we're in
  i believe in you i have found the perfect
  way
  to bring me down i won't be saved
  by all your yesterdays piss on my grave
  piss on the the underlay
  history moans
  mouth of our father
  it's the movement we're after