Paroles: Napalm Death. Enemy Of The Music Business. Thanks for Nothing.

Serve my head on a plate
Pulp my heart with ill will
I did trust you
Let to lust you, to be duped

Thanks for fucking nothing

Serve my head on a plate
Pulp my heart with ill will
Sensed a mystique, turn to spent air
Killed it dead

Thanks for fucking nothing
Scrap the depths to salvage something
Thanks for fucking nothing
Drained my all, then drop the bombshell

True, we were not joined
Our every feature spliced
Though you rushed in and took a lead

Three words spouted
This contagion crossed all divides
Caused a shift in protective focus
Three words flouted

Untimely end, I should've clicked
A sensory cut-out
A spoiling of the harmony
Of which we were about

I don't despise or demonize
But I just know your form
Walk right out and move along
And leap before you look

Thanks for fucking nothing