Stop the match my wayward sons
Things will be better when you are done
Lay your headbands to rest
You don't make dimes no more

Once you rose above the noise and confusion
Just to do flip spots beyond reason
You are making the crowd tired
But you drew no dimes

Though your eyes could see, You still was a flippy man
Though your mind could think, you're still a self-mark man
You hear the voices when you are wrestling
You can hear them say

/chorus/

Signed contract with a man with no reason
"7 match series, same event of the season"
And if you claim he's a good bookerman, well
It surely means that you don't know

On a synchronized spot moving in slow motion
Tossed about, shitting with mexican jokers
Your dance routines will cost a fortune
But you ignore the voices say

/chorus/