This song goes out
to all the hopeless sinners,
with grave allegiances,
so meaningless and vain,

though walking wounded in a pageant of contenders,
who balance on a rail of pain for just a pale refrain.

And everything is barely missed, but relations and (predicts?)
my expression, my confession, add it up, extract a lesson, more than this,
once again, like a bullet as a friend, tell me: can that be all there is?

In my rectory of doubt, I kneel to pray like one devout,
as time the great great dreamless sleep of a useless modern god
erodes away each sorry day as wretched adams, one hell to pay--
contained upon a rail of pain for just a little rain.

And everything is dearly missed, but relations and predicts
my expression, my confession, add it up, extract a lesson, more than this,
once again, like a bullet as a friend, tell me: can that be all there is?

There’s an endless disposition,
and it doesn’t mean a goddamn thing—
there’s space for a paper-airplane race in the eye of a hurricane.

And if pigs could fly, then surely so could I,
but this pedestrian knows better than to even try,
and my divinity is caught between the colors of a butterfly.

And everything is dearly missed, but relations and predicts
my expression, my confession, add it up, extract duress and more than this,
once again, like a bullet as a friend, tell me: can that be all there is?
All there is?

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