banging rocks together makes sunshine.
banging heads with rocks 'til blood comes: the writing process.
everything has diapers on
and smells like it's time for a change, or some holes in the flag.
my whole perspective relies soley on questions that can't have answers,
like everyone in their assumptions. a big pigpen driven by dead dogs;
well if that's your site,
put up a superhero with a better poker face.
this noble cause reeks of self-gratification,
but it's more like no satisfaction. so when i die,
that's when the fessin' go to college and all the writers go to heaven.
and if you wasn't born on this planet, blame the world for being there.
i'm not assuming responsibility for everyone lost in the shuffle;
my whole philosophy is based on moodswings,
limited attention spans, and an expansion pack for everything.
am i feeling it? mostly full of it, selling my guts for the art of it,
placed all of my faith in these heritics,
we're all future presidents;
nobody knows it yet, that's the beauty of it all.
welcome to my desert island, the weather is glorious.
take a picture (no one reads the articles).
i need music with texture and, someday, a happy meal.
rude awakening after rude awakening,
i'm asking ya'll to be polite
until i match the blood on the battlefield with the gleam in my eye.

chorus:
if i could make it stop raining, this whole damn place
wouldn't know what to do with all the sunlight
i've been saving up for a life like this.
your god is booing you off-stage and your heroes don't respect you.

it's all in vain and can't be bought;
hung from the ceiling and often attached to the first thought.
she gave me a handshake full of empty promises.
and now i'm thirty minus something,
plus i wrestle demons down to the ground in my spare time.
it's a new day, the pigeons no longer fly yonder;
they make prophets out of messengers and text from all the classics.
meet the archangel in two minutes to live at all times.
i hold the mirror against a mirror against a mirror against a mirror.
what i'm saying is: word is deceased, work is slavery.
they're saving asses for the big layoff
where they lie you down and take it like a native
colonized by search and seizure.
the grass is always greener and when you make it there, it dies
(if getting there don't kill you). and the people there don't share.
this is what your bones will sound like when they play 'em in space.

chorus