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
