There are babies with guns beheading their friends
In shopping malls around the world
Yet somehow the Kings of Leon
Still have time to write songs about girls.
I don't suck much less. At least those dudes have no illusions
Of angst and hopelessness
And if I claim revolutionary or I give to charity,
They'll all know it's a plea for someone like me,
Disgusted with lies and cut down by their own beatnik poetry.
I'm just one man with no face and no friends.
God, in this dank Brooklyn bar I can feel it again.
It's eating me.

Wait a second. I can't sing the same damn song over and over again!
I can't define myself through irony and self deprecation.
I can't deny myself being alive through my alienation.
Everything that you do keeps me running back to you.
Can't give up. Live the dream even if I don't believe.
We can't afford to surrender.

Fake players and the twisted web they weave.
I contend that the coming holocaust will be of those who choose to believe
Anything but a phallic sense of self.
Hang alone in the attic tied up tightly with your father's belt.
You bathe in blood like Mr. Crowley.
Your cost, their loss. Their memory haunts me.
I stand opposed to chaos that you chose.
New heart. New bones.
Am I not alone?

Fake players are the ones who play the game.