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

The walking wounded in a pagent of contenders
Who balance on a rail of pain for just a pail of rain

And everything is barely mist, blood relations and bricks
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 gray dreamless sleep of a useless modern god
erodes away each storied day as wretched Adams with [bad word] to pay
Content upon a rail of pain for just a little rain.

And everything is dearly missed, blood relations and bricks
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 [bad word] 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, blood relations and bricks
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?