S.T.Y.

Everywhere you look; stained suits and ties
Your fates depend on a dice
Pour a metaphorical knife
And make sure none of the others see

Poison in your tiny... glasses
They come in many variations
So drink it up, drink it up
Your glasses to the sky
Kids, drink up, drink it up
Until you all die

This is a funeral party
But it’s the guests that will attend their own deaths
One by one, they’ll drop dead
And hit their head
On the alcoholic dance floor

A frame by frame domino scene
Caused by the blinding strobe lights
With the flickering colors
A majority red
Ending with everyone dead

A bullet to the mirror
You bring this upon your selves
We just laugh it out
Just accessories to the crime