The smoke infiltrates my lungs,
Stealing all of the air I had,
Using me as means to breathe,
Mother nature's thief who's holding a grudge.

Those who hate me,
All reside in this town,
I see their flags everywhere,
And I see every way I could die.

I'll write a formal letter,
To the smoke and hope to the Gods,
That it'll carry me far, far, far away.

Through alleyways and empty malls,
I'm not lost, you're all just losing your minds,
I'm strangled by denial and a yearning to be free,
That's all I would wish for if I saw a shooting star,
Except all this smoke screens me from the stars,
And the meteors that fly through.

I'll write a formal letter,
To the smoke and hope to the Gods,
That it'll carry me far, far, far away.

This city,
Is a prison,
Alcatraz island,
As a town,
For all the richest,
The *******, and the bigots,
To move in,
And tear down,
What we just began to build.

Listen, I'm not saying I'm gonna **** myself.
Cause I'm not.
It's just fun to think of ways I could die.

Maybe a murderer could choke me to sleep,
Or a boulder could crush me softly.

A car could come veering and SPLAT!
I'd die today!

Could a bear rush from the woods
and make my head a pancake?

Or maybe Thor will strike me down
showing me that I was wrong.

Either way,
Either or,
Whether I die tonight,
From a stroke at midnight,
Or I live to see the morning,
And sigh cause no one's mourning.

I could...
Have a ******* birthday party
To be poisoned by my enemies!

Well that'd be a funny tale
To tell the distant relatives.

There's no way to know
Unless I spoke to an Oracle
To which he'd tell me that my fate
Lies in the gun in the garage.

For when a deranged hick
Comes barrelling into my home!
And sticks the barrel of the gun,
Right into my mouth.

BANG!

My eyes on the floor,
My cheeks on the walls,
My hair and brains decorating the couch.

Either way,
Either or,
Whether I die tonight,
From a stroke at midnight,
Or I live to see the morning,
And sigh cause no one's mourning.

I can't imagine
becoming a part
Of the working class.

The burden of a schedule
And the thought of mental decay
Hurts more than when my step-daddy hit me.

Cause at least
that pain,
was temporary.

I'm expected to fray at the seams
Until my hair turns gray
'Til I'm eligible for retirement
If at all.

Forty hours a week
That looks pretty ******* bleak
Especially when you think
That the lasts one
Are sick of their ******* lives.

So I guess
It *****.

I'd rather die
Than become the working class.

I'd rather be brain dead and in a mental ward
Being spoon fed and *** wiped.

Don't ******* patronize me.
I know what it's gotta be.

I'm not stupid
I'm just learning everything.

Nobody even taught me.