In a motel bathroom he was born,
A consequence of unsafe porn,
Pissed out of his mother in a manner most profane.

His tiny veins were filled with meth,
His heart was beating him to death,
For her not to have killed him then and there was inhumane.

He’s unlucky, a sorry little son of a bitch.
Life’s always dumping on him.
He’s unhappy, his trigger finger’s starting to itch.
You’re better off not to know him.

On the first day that he went to school,
He thought that it might just be cool,
Until he walked into his class and entered into Hell.

Spit-wad fusillade,
Wailing fists upon his bod,
Until at last he heard the ringing of that bell!

He’s unlucky, a sorry little son of a bitch.
Life’s always dumping on him.
He’s unhappy, his trigger finger’s starting to itch.
You’re better off not to know him.

I try to justify the fact that I am here but I,
Can’t seem to find a reason why I keep on living, I should die.
The injuries that ought to take my life, they come, but pass me by.
A million times I should have died, but here I am, I’m still alive!

He’s unlucky, a sorry little son of a bitch.
He’s unhappy, his trigger finger’s starting to itch.

He’s unlucky, a sorry little son of a bitch.
Life’s always dumping on him.
He’s unhappy, his trigger finger’s starting to itch.
You’re better off not to know him.