You're the infection, I am the human race.

Nothing but cutthroats and whores line these streets.
They decorate like wallpaper, clinging to the smell of defeat.
I guess you're right where you belong.
And if you ever say you didn't mean it again, don't say you're never wrong.
Tossed out the window, like the last hit of the cigarette you've been smoking since you were born.
But I hit the street on my feet and I've been running since the break of dawn.
Through the towns we called homes, and the ones we use to stray away from.
Over the hills we fell in love on and through the valleys that separated us best.
Don't get me wrong, the only thing you haven't broken is my heart.
I've seen through you since day one, you were a chance not worth taking.
Like heading to the top floor once the ground starts shaking.
The floorboards to your room hold more secrets than a teenager's ear.
And I swear I'll tell every single one if you ever come near.
Because there's two types of people. Those who infect and those who embrace.
You are the infection, I am the human race.
I'll find a way to beat you, through skill.
To cut you off at your source of needles and pills.
Everyone will hooray, for I have found the cure.
To fight off the fatal disease, of the dirty little whore.