There is a certain type of genius who is proud to know so much
He skipped a thousand showers 'cause he doesn't need to touch
He hides his bastard faces behind thick panes of glass
They're all that separates him from the apish lower class
And the stench of love keeps snaking up his nose, through all the snot his sinuses can hold
Believing all the lies that he's been told grows old, so old
A Friday night alone with friends, he's got but one or two
They're geniuses like him, you see, nothing like all of you
They banter and they languish with ostentatious plea
Their oh-so-trendy anguish, their underground machine
And he won't be there when Jesus comes around
He'll write a book on what his studies found
And deep inside he'll learn to fear the sound of hope, of hope
He says, "Why should I even try? I will let the oil soak in my face until the pimples shine like tiny mountains set in place, this lonely valley mine, between the hills of opulence that grow in strength with time. Scarlet clusters spring from skin to hide my missing spots."
Go, go, go
And he won't be there when Jesus comes around
He'll write a book on what his studies found
And deep inside he'll long to hear the sound of hope, of hope
When the world stabs you in the back, the worst thing you could do is become indifferent too
There is no "they," no idiot brigade
Only a thousand you's, equally as bruised
Go to either of these sites to download this song:
http://bsidesrus.wordpress.com/
or www.aboutfalling.com
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