I don't mind Sir. Fascist Police, when he's knocking on my door.
As long as he's not mean to me, I'll blow him, for sure.
I know he thumps the other kids, on their maroon-bruised heads,
but police man, he brings treats to me, so I'm not gonna tell.

Mama, mama, mama, mama, he poked me!
Mama, mama, mama, mama, he poked me!
Mama, mama, mama, mama, he poked me!
Mama, why's he so mean?

My best friend, she's such a *****, she calls me slutty names.
I tell her I don't like it much, but she just feels no shame.
Late last night we went out, true to our glossy, lipglossed glory,
and as the eve proceeds, plot thickens, **** gets gorey.

She gets and I get drunk and we both weep,
boyish-looking monsters try to **** with me.
And as he bends me over in the parking lot,
Annie smirks at me, smokes another joint.

I don't mind my apathy, at least it keeps me calm.
I'm content with this lifestyle, my death rate is at a crawl.
And sure I'll get some panics when life don't work out the way that I want.
But the I'll pop some Prozacs, guess I'm happy after all.

This changes nothing, so don't thank me.
We'll wake in the morning, with thoughts in our heads.
Revalue our lives for five or six minutes and then forget.

Leave for this industrial wasteland,
it'll treat your heart like coal -
pile it up in heaps of dust,
then use to warm their homes.

As I sit, astound, in this classroom,
and let my yell jump off the walls,
I realize - I always write
to define what I'll never own.

And so I'll scribble her down, like a madman,
just to hear her words,
and they'll blur with mine until my mind
can't remember which ones we've heard.

Leave for this industrial wasteland,
where the ground's a soggisg grey.
Where toddler drink beer and the introverts fear that
they were once like them.

Leave for this industrial wasteland,
it'll solve your troubled mind,
'cause if you cannot feel any extremes,
then you'll know you've already died.

You're happy when you're smiling,
I'm happy when I'm not.
You're happy when I'm lying,
I smile when I get caught.