Gettin’ down with the liars
Two-faced trickery, tough trip wires
Virtue is the most difficult thing you can admire
Sing no songs to a disapproving choir
Two years in the building
Three floors, four elevators, five queries
Who what where when why becomes very
Difficult to describe, future’s getting scary
Black leather with a gold typeface
Representing last-minute high-stress migraines
An abundance of anxiety in young right brains
No sleep, no sex, just late night pains
And a regret monologue break in this
No food, no fight, no face in this
Just uptight, dumb, strung, misfit kids
With a half-finished list of accomplishments

Get a job, get a house, get hitched
To a partner who don’t know what “art school” is
Save your best made plans for the easily impressed
And acceptance speech for the often unaddressed
Flash a resumé to anyone who’ll read it
Good luck talking up, no one really needs it
“Hi, that’s great, goodbye, no thanks”
Eight syllables that make it kinda difficult to breathe in
Still stuck on your two-year crush
Makes your guts twist up ‘cause you mad fucked up
Every lyric wasted on her is a word too much
Every text is a curse and it spells “you suck”
But you didn’t need anyone to tell you that
No heart, no home, no future plans
When your brain is a commodity of two right halves
Always losing at the lottery, no free tax

Play songs that’ll make it seem like you truly achieved greatness
Play hard like the jocks who never punched out what your name is
Hate all of the girlfriends who you claim did you some wrong
Hate all of the boyfriends who they went with once you were gone
Breakdowns are common nature to the ones who let them spiral
Break off into different people for the holy self revival
Shake trends and stereotypes that your peers used to put on you
Shake, stir, repeat, concur with the rumors and the drama

Keepin’ up with the gossip
Two years later on, worth agnostic
Systematic deities are difficult to worship
Make no prayers to the inattentive Goddess
Two decades on terraform
Three makes middle-aged, four makes uniform
Increasingly uninterested in Hallmark greeting cards
Every message ends with “here’s to many more”
But how many more can I survive?
With a sharp fear of death and a lust for life
If I had a real purpose across the light
Then I could walk away without a burning fight
Gimme two bedrooms and a place to nosh
And a spot for my records and my VCR
With a little nook or cranny for my bass guitars
If I could just have that it wouldn’t be so hard