Sting


Muscles steeled for action, reflexes like a cat.
There’s no sense in losin’, what’s the point in that?
Old-school modern fighter, God-like tuned and honed.
I ain’t one for threat’nin’, but I’ll crush your mortal bones.

Don’t push me, don’t push me, I’m slippery when wet!
Machine-powered grease-gun, mach two fighter jet.
Supersonic power, coiled tight like a spring.
Hear my tail a-rattlin’, watch out for my

sting.

Don’t go dirty mouthin’, don’t go soundin’ off.
You ain’t in the fight club, paid up with pain an’ blood.
Patience is a virtue, but I’ve a real short fuse,
Don’t test me, hell, don’t cross me, trust me I am real bad news.

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

Hear the keyboard warriors’ roar,
the pen is mightier than the sword.
The armchair generals plot and plan,
but wars are won by real men.

PRE-CHORUS

CHORUS

©4.8.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman


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