| The truth is
|
| It was hate at first sight
|
| Starin' down the barrel of a man
|
| With no real opinions
|
| But with charm oozing from every pore
|
| Just watch him glide across the floor
|
| Does he turn left,
|
| Will he turn right?
|
| Checks himself in the mirror
|
| At least a thousand times a day
|
| It’s where truth collides with fiction
|
| He stands before me
|
| The last remaining gin king of England
|
| Fearless, ruthless, cheerless, clueless
|
| But lookin' like a million dollars (Wow!)
|
| The emperor has got new clothes
|
| He stands accused
|
| Of being socially inept
|
| Some say rude, aloof
|
| Devoid of any real truth
|
| He lives in a world of self-doubt
|
| Self-pity, self-loathing, self-harm
|
| The voices inside his head
|
| Are playing Chinese whispers
|
| As all around him play hide and seek
|
| But don’t ask him to put a smile on that face
|
| Or to cheer up
|
| Don’t tell him it might never happen
|
| Because you know what
|
| It probably already did
|
| Maybe show him some understanding
|
| Give him time, let him breathe
|
| Let him live, yeah
|
| The emperor has got new clothes
|
| Guess what
|
| The world ended yesterday
|
| Today is just an action replay
|
| And hell is wherever heaven is not
|
| So here I stand
|
| The well informed optimist
|
| Who refuses to turn on
|
| Tune in, and drop out
|
| I refuse to lose control
|
| I refuse to let it wash all over me
|
| I refuse to succumb to what your vision
|
| Of happy should look like
|
| Because it certainly doesn’t look like you
|
| And when the sign says stop
|
| That’s when I go
|
| Like a clean, mean
|
| Medicated fighting machine
|
| Who’s all dressed up
|
| And ready to disco
|
| The emperor has got new clothes |