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 dont suck much less At least those dudes have no illusions of angst and hopelessness And if I claim revolutionary or I give to charity Theyll all know its a plea for someone like me Disgusted with lies and cut down by their own beatnik poetry Im just one man with no face and no friends God, in this dank Brooklyn bar I can feel it again Its eating me Wait a second I cant write the same damn song over and over again I cant define myself through irony and self deprecation I cant deny myself being alive through my alienation Everything that you do Keeps me running back to you Cant give up, live the dream Even if I dont believe We cant afford to surrender We cant 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 fathers 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!
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