I’m the son of rage and love.
The Jesus of suburbia,
The bible of none of the above,
On a steady diet of…
Soda pop and Ritalin,
No one ever died for my sins in hell,
As far as I can tell,
At least the ones I got away with.
And there’s nothing wrong with me,
This is how I’m supposed to be,
In a land of make believe,
That don’t believe in me.
Get my television fix,
Sitting on my crucifix,
The living room on my private womb,
While the moms and Brads are away,
To fall in love and fall in debt,
To alcohol and cigarettes,
And mary jane,
To keep me insane,
Doing someone else’s cocaine.
And there’s nothing wrong with me,
This is how I’m supposed to be,
In a land of make believe,
That don’t believe in me.
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