| He hasn’t been himself for quite a while
|
| He won’t crack a smile
|
| Prosecutor in his own trial
|
| As the floor below him becomes so fertile
|
| By his very own vile nile in exile source
|
| But the pitter patter of his tears
|
| On the bathroom tile
|
| All his friends are dead
|
| Heh, hold your dread
|
| Not in the literal sense
|
| He’s just incensed
|
| By his own dense
|
| Defense of the friends
|
| That pretend to care at his expense
|
| Until he’s dispensed
|
| But that’s just his two cents
|
| In case you were on the fence
|
| All option exhausted
|
| So he writes poetry like Nas did
|
| Just face it you lost kid
|
| Just close the garage door
|
| And let your face get exhausted
|
| Like your playing in boss
|
| You’re nothing more than your feelings
|
| From your floor to your ceilings
|
| And out through your bloodshot ocular faucets
|
| Boy versus brain
|
| White noise versus the sane
|
| Always versus the same
|
| Cries for help exclaim
|
| That he’s beyond repair
|
| He’ll swear
|
| He’ll despair
|
| He’ll stare
|
| Straight ahead in the mirror
|
| At the source of his waking nightmare
|
| (Are you writin' this down Christie? Yeah)
|
| Most can’t sleep at night
|
| They see the faces they missed
|
| Try as he might somethings amiss
|
| He can only see his
|
| Fake plastic smile
|
| The only problem with diplomacy is
|
| The more he lies about happiness
|
| The more lonely he gets
|
| He’s standing on a bluff
|
| Overlooking the city
|
| The city’s biggest bluff
|
| Is making itself look so pretty
|
| He tells himself to be tough
|
| Isolated and gritty
|
| But gritty’s kinda hard
|
| When his brain’s run by committee
|
| He remembers too vivid
|
| When he admitted
|
| He benefited
|
| From her arm being slitted from when he was pitted
|
| Against the alited
|
| But he was acquitted
|
| 'round when he submitted
|
| Two prescriptions retrofitted
|
| So afflictions were omitted
|
| But no surprise the nightmares only get worse
|
| When he takes the pills
|
| For the first time
|
| Poison is some kind
|
| Kill the noise in his own mind
|
| He’s seriously delirious and deliriously serious
|
| Oh my dear sister Christie
|
| I think his end might be nearin' us
|
| Nothing can fix the fear in us
|
| So who do I speak of
|
| And why is he gray
|
| He rejects all his love
|
| See the prices he pays
|
| To his vices he caves
|
| In a crisis of fates
|
| No tragic history
|
| Only a mystery
|
| So I say to you
|
| Who?
|
| Why don’t you tell me? |