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A prophet of urban decay and alienation
We'll toast to the starts; contrived disintegration
To stay inspired off of isolation
A star is bored, and hey, that's my situation

If history is a wheel, then we've broken the spokes
Yeah, piety ain't real
Our fathers' dreams were a hoax

Never knowing what I want
Past and present have taught
Your goals are your own
And a stranger can’t lead you home

Fabrication assigns a label that lifts the pedestal more
The citric acid; it creeps in my pores
Under my skin, in my blood stream

He hasn’t shaved in weeks
Greasy hair, dirt compact under his yellow finger nails
Cigarette breathe, whiskey dreams fill his head
As much say as the rats under the floorboards

He walks through giant oak doors; golden crosses, scent galore
The door slams shut mid sermon, fresh faces turn to see
The elephant in their holy room

I won’t settle in, at least, not when I have to pretend

People; they talk about it
People; they write about it
I hear and see it all
I know it exists, when will it ever begin?
No not for me, I’m no gentleman

Strange how bodies change,
How the time takes its toll
But we’ll never collect driving on these old roads

Here comes the world, falling like a ton of bricks
On the edge of ice and darkness
But, alas, a warm ray and a breeze from the sky