Mara and Me

There are babies with guns beheading their friends In shopping malls around the world Yet somehow the Kings of Leon Still find 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 write 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 We can't afford Fake players and the twisted web they weave I contend that the coming holocaust Will be of those who choose to believe In 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 (Go to sleep, go to sleep, come on!) Fake players are the ones who play the game (Fake players, fake players!) Fake players are the ones who play the game (Go to sleep, go to sleep, come on!) Fake players are the ones who play the game (Fake players!)