Force of Habit

Let me paint you a portrait of a man Born unto privilege child of aristocracy, so tender the young mind, yet so unclean His was a heart of darkness that beat within his chest Breasting life into the crimes he'd manifest Imp of the perverse on a blood

Can't overcome it, it's what I do best I'll pick your pocket for your last red cent It's a disease, I'm stricken like the rest Never return anything I'm lent It wasn't me, yeah you know it wasn't me It must've been someone who looked like me Innocent