My alter-ego. hes an escape artist
Hes only [bad word] happy when hes under arrest.
Oh how he handsome scheduled to hang to death
Hes only [bad word] happy at the precipice.
 
Hes like a mirror. he sticks into our ears
stethoscope to the chest of the vacant years.
I cant escape the chair im etherized with fear
That my only talent is in hanging here.
 
But then its
Hey boy ive got your man hes right here
Putty in my hands
Ice cream and sweets [bad word] in the sheets
He got no excuse to leave.

And in the real world an intertidal cave
I ride a desk chair waiting for a tidal wave
I feel like dancing but that is miles away
Im feeling hard and hollow like paper mache.
 
My alter ego. hes in a jailers cage
He sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape.
Im sorry pastor i cant be pasteurized.
All of the bibles in the world for a metal file.
 
At every clock strike he hears the jailers keys
And the doubt starts to sprout til hes on his knees.
But he is singing when the night is black
oeall i am is whatever im aiming at
And he remembers like its his mothers call
To feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall.
And
I want to feel it i want to feel the fire
Of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles.