| I know that one goes without a hatchet, that is what is customary
|
| Even if you say I feel like the Hun like Attila
|
| When the night dazzles me and derails me
|
| I'm back to being the last in line
|
| And my mood swings like a swing
|
| I went from being a hurricane to a Zen master
|
| Sometimes a volcano with the power of Superman
|
| And then, you see, I'm Clark Kent
|
| I see the future and I believe myself the king of the empire
|
| Until I read what my grave says in the cemetery
|
| Seriously, if I give current like the eel
|
| My battery expires and I am left without an amp
|
| I can be on top with nothing on top
|
| And well elevated my esteemed self-esteem
|
| To plummet from that platform
|
| And explode like the bomb that wiped Hiroshima off the map
|
| And I get worse like the weather, I change a coat for a blouse
|
| And I catch the accelerated descent on the roller coaster
|
| I can be perfect without excuses
|
| I'm the opposite of straight like the hypotenuse
|
| down and up
|
| brake and continue
|
| I get up
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar
|
| I go up and down
|
| I continue and brake
|
| and i sink
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar
|
| So don't trust me
|
| I have more taboos than Hindus and Pakistanis
|
| I can dot the i's
|
| And then get killed by skiing without skis
|
| That's how false my thinking is
|
| He who laughs last thinks slowest
|
| I lie if I seem friendly and courteous
|
| I'm untouchable like Eliot Ness
|
| There are days when I'm upside down and I'm disconsolate
|
| To hell by elevator instead of a stairway to heaven
|
| Neither Robert Plant nor the fate of Bugs Bunny saves me
|
| I dress like Kant and think like Armani
|
| But my flaws don't make me complex
|
| The effect of sorrows are daggers that afflict me
|
| I see them as marks in vague form
|
| And more than scars later they look like sores to me
|
| down and up
|
| brake and continue
|
| I get up
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar
|
| I go up and down
|
| I continue and brake
|
| and i sink
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar
|
| Down like an underground boxer
|
| That never got past the first round
|
| But straightened the bow, and strong as a boa
|
| Feel like he won more fights than Rocky Balboa
|
| (don't fuck around)
|
| A prince charming I feel sometimes, I confess
|
| Others not so handsome, a toad begging for a kiss
|
| And that? A cocktail of oil and water
|
| I seem directed by Buñuel or Kurosawa
|
| Sometimes I answer what I feel
|
| But I immediately regret those feelings
|
| That's when my answers stack up
|
| And they float in the wind like Dylan's
|
| My days parade and they shoot my soul
|
| Calm days and others who want a gun
|
| And my karma unravels like a zip file
|
| And my alarm starts to sound beep, beep, beep
|
| down and up
|
| brake and continue
|
| I get up
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar
|
| I go up and down
|
| I continue and brake
|
| and i sink
|
| Beep, beep, beep, bipolar |