They stand around with their faces in the grass
Hoping someday that god of theirs will come for their ass
The disposition to a kinder plain for serenity
And so the trumpet plays as they march to their deaths
With not a whisper of sincerity from a dying man's breath
They pull the cloths from their tables and weep
I'd feel sorry now if he wasn't still free
But I'd still really like to punch a hole in his teeth
He wouldn't know when we're coming, we're so discreet
Till the day he coughs up blood in his cabin by the beach
With not another one in sight to hear his wounded pleas
Only then could her rest be complete
Those rats
They're gonna stain
Those rats
You better pray
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead
You're only famous when you're f*cking dead