there are babies with guns beheading their friends   in shopping malls around the world   yet somehow the kings of leon   still have 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   but we can't afford to surrender      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 mister 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