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 play 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 beatnick poetry



(I'm just one man with no face and no friends)

God in this dank Brooklyn bar I can feel it again and 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

Oh, I contend that the coming holocaust

Will be of those who choose to believe

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!)