there is a certain type of genius

who is proud to know so much

he skipped a thousand showers

cause he doesn't need to touch

he hides his bastard faces

behind thick panes of glass

they're all that seperates him

from the apish lower class

and the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nose

through all the snot his sinuses can hold

believing all the lies that he's been told

grows old, so old



a friday night alone with friends

he's got but one or two

they're geniuses like him, you see

nothing like all of you

they banter and they languish

with all ostentatious plea

they're all so trendy and which

they're underground machines



and he wont be there when jesus comes around

he'll write a book on what his studies found

and deep inside he'll learn to fear the sound

of hope, of hope



he says why should i even try

i will let the oil soak in my face

until the pimples shine

like tiny mountains set in place

this lonely valley, mine

between the hills of opulence

they grow with strength and time

scarlet clusters spring from skin

to hide my missing spots



and he wont be there when jesus comes around

he'll write a book on what his studies found

And deep inside he'll want to hear the sound

of hope, of hope



when the world stabs you in the back

the worst thing you could do

is become indifferent to

there is no 'they'

no idiot brigade

only a thousand yous

equally as bruised