there are babies with guns beheading their friends

in shopping malls around the world

yet somehow the kings of leon

still have time to write songs about girls

i don't suck much less

at least those dudes have no illusions of angst and hopelessness

and if i claim revolutionary or i give to charity

they'll all know it's a plea for someone like me

disgusted with lies and cut down by their own beatnik poetry

i'm just one man with no face and no friends

god in this dank brooklyn bar i can feel it again

it's eating me



wait a second- i can't write the same damn song over and over again



i can't define myself through irony and self deprecation

i can't deny myself being alive through my alienation

everything that you do keeps me running back to you

can't give up, live the dream even if i don't believe

but we can't afford to surrender



fake players and the twisted web they weave

in anything but a phallic sense of self

hang alone in the attic, tied up tightly with your father's belt



you bathe in blood like mister crowley

your cost, their loss. their memory haunts me

i stand opposed to chaos that you chose

new heart, new bones

am i not alone?



fake players are the ones who play the game