I'd rather be sittin' on my coffin
than restin' in my bed,
so when I'm contemplatin' dyin'
I'll be right on top of death.

We all strap on our gas masks
and prepare for the day.
We just wave hello through the charcoal
and pretend that it's okay.

And you walk home in silence
as the noise rings in your head;
and the pills they got you on now
help you remember to forget.

They've got us votin' for a monster
when we all just need a bath;
exfoliate the pores of freedom
'til the flag fall off the staff.

And there's a greater need
for a common good,
but we all feel so estranged...

And we all write prose
for this maniacal pose.
It's a song I suppose.
But I'm tired of singin'
Yeah, I'm tired of singin' all alone.

And we're splittin' hairs with keystrokes
as we tell 'em how we feel.
And we're hopin' that it sinks in,
but this platform isn't real.

Now we're swimmin' in the front yard
as the flood knocks down the pool;
and the swamp that they were drainin'
was just a bribery for fools.

And the kids all talk of Satan
as Jesus shakes his head;
as Buddha sits in silence,
Muhammad breaks the bread.

And we all sit at the table
like this supper is our last,
and we stay still for the painting
and deny we have a past.

As if humanity
was just so bored
that they had to write a book...

And we all write prose
for this maniacal pose,
It's a song I suppose.
But I'm tired of singin'
Yeah, I'm tired of singin' all alone.

01/23/2017