and i'm a rebel, when i jaywalk in slow-mo.
i spit at birds and don't blow my nose when it's cold.
and hypochondria makes creation,
as satisfaction conceived depression.
hypothetical pathetic...
hypothetical pathetic...
i stamp flowers, i kick at the mail.
when i wear a polo, i colour my nails.
the inner cow sits upon a manifest
as i scout for the milk and call it a quest.
and desperation kills creation
as satisfaction conceived depression.
i shout revolution at the ducks in the park.
and Daisy thinks i'm beautiful, pretending to starve.
i cover my face, when approaching a pose.
the ink on my skin is peace & anarchy enclosed.
hypothetical pathetic.
hypothetical pathetic.
pathetically pathetic.
there's nothing at all to squeal at the sky:
the tears in my veins and blood in my eyes,
the growth of paranoia and the trust in lies,
is killing my time and the mind of my embryo of despise.
