| I’m 17, coked up and speeding
|
| And I cannot swear that this is actually happening
|
| Collecting names scrawled out on paper napkins
|
| And confusing love with squalid, base attraction
|
| I’m 21 and she’s called the cops to take me
|
| As I weep my eyes bone dry in the back of a taxi
|
| I’m so convinced that now it’s finally too late
|
| Disembodied, friction based, toothless in an empty face
|
| I don’t mind if I spend my time humping a fault line
|
| «Hey, kid!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!»
|
| Said the fool to the mystic
|
| «Be realistic!»
|
| (Just do)
|
| He replied with a lipstick sigil:
|
| «You always think too much and feel too little»
|
| «Hey, kid!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!»
|
| Said the fool to the mystic
|
| «Be realistic!»
|
| (Just do)
|
| He replied with a lipstick sigil:
|
| «You always think too much and feel too little»
|
| I’m 23 locked up in the asylum
|
| Listening too much to my own album
|
| Sent me spinning out death-wish-bound to forge a callous
|
| Stomping on the seesaw where I balance
|
| I’m at that age where I actually go to parties
|
| And I sit in the back with a drink and let them judge me
|
| While I pray to the devil that a hurricane comes to take us
|
| We’ll be torn away from all the ways we fake trust
|
| «Hey, kid!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!»
|
| Said the fool to the mystic
|
| «Be realistic!»
|
| (Just do)
|
| He replied with a lipstick sigil:
|
| «You always think too much and feel too little»
|
| «Hey, kid!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!»
|
| Said the fool to the mystic
|
| «Be realistic!»
|
| (Just do)
|
| He replied with a lipstick sigil:
|
| «You always think too much and feel too little»
|
| «Hey, kid!
|
| Hey, kid!
|
| Hey, kid!
|
| You’re not a kid anymore!
|
| Kid, you’re not a kid anymore!»
|
| Physic Nazism
|
| Throbbing viral meme fissures eating my insides
|
| Cut, maim, and drink beneath an obese sweltering sun
|
| I am a vain little white boy with nothing to offer
|
| Except the admission that we have become a disease
|
| So if this is what your God has to offer I spit in his face |