Attaboy!
Sometimes I have problems relating to Batman, a billionaire in a bondage suit stomping the destitute with Freudian jackboots.
Then I realize he's an anarchist radical in disguise.
He probably listens to In My Eyes.
Of course it feels better when you realize a punk can fly.
Why do you do just what they told you?
Have them both at once.
Why don't you feel bad?
Why don't you feel had?
You split the baby just to please the crutch of desperate mothers out for blood.
Sometimes I gut and skin those who cannot reconcile my stance (muddled spiritual phrase, pseudo-political rage, beer gut on a sober man) but then I press my calloused flesh to someone who's out of my league and knowingly laugh knowing life is transcending heat-death and its aftermath.
I think it's a crying shame that you're not at this show because I'm trying to tap into something you reluctantly know.
Don't jam it in private so all your co-workers won't know.
Nobody's watching over you; you can nod your head, precious.
We can drown out the daytime soap you live and the ghosts you've been mourning.
I know we keep plugging away at the same octave chords.
We only know octave chords.
A career built on octave chords butchered to jilted time but it's the frightfully mundane that keeps us alive.
So keep on keeping on.
Writer(s): Max Bemis, Darren Kyle King
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