here i am, waxing poetic and waning harangue
learning to quit but teaching to win
if losers don't win, and winners never cry
why can't butterflies be heroes and all battle cries obscenities?
what a nice way to put a scar, right down the face of a city
how cruel of you pope, to mend it with rubber, and damn it with snow
and if you've never seen him rape a tower, let me tell you
don't live in the silver one down the road
it's haunted with rumors that once were lies, now printed for chains
stop the press, we can't bend any lower, and i don't fear death as much as i should
and there you are playing a life, and living a maze