Look at my hands they are leathery and rough, they can spread and heal with love or let me wield a gun/ let me peel the calousy flesh, expecting me to budge, they bring bits of balance and death to everything I touch/ what makes a man, what makes my essence when I’m gone? The things I’ve left are either precious or detestable by God/ it’s either purposesless and turns to shit, or pertinent and durable and circumvents discernable worthlessness the turns to gold/ and gold is bright and stunning but my foresight is dim, it’s time to study, buddy, we livin’ in war times again/ I’ve tried the honey (honey) but I’m attractin’ more flies with shit, so the more destructive I am, the more fly I get

(Chorus)