We have funny colored hair
And we sing our corrupted music a little too loud
We paint pretty pictures of revolution
Right on the surface of our diamond-studded faces.

We run away from responsibility,
In fear of not meeting the standards set by generations before.
Work hard, no sleep.
Play a little less, fall under the knife.
When will we reach the ****** of
This demented little fairytale?

Sit in a perfectly placed corner,
Smile wide, and don’t say a word.
They’re going to muffle your cries with cotton, anyways.