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
i contend that the coming holocaust will be of those who choose to believe
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