I think things you don’t know how to
think I sing songs you don’t know how to sing;
(can’t understand the words you know)
and while I’m thinkin’ these thoughts/singin’ these songs I can hear you
your eyes from all sides I see you
(and don’t it make you squirm?)
when I pass you are laughing like a Comedy Central rerun you
rerun to your so-called Friends to find your faith again
(well my Best Friend is dead, so thank Him for Them I guess since you believe),
but back to me (’cause that’s most important you know).
twelve ways to Sunday you beat me down to an infernal INFERNO, the living stepladder
but I know your secret, baby Bebop,
I hear your self-loathing Song sing in my ears
in my veins and I know why you hate me so much:
you can’t put me in a box, see.
can’t call me faggot (i’m fashionably bi)
not cracker or nigger (I’m French oo la hahaha)
not witch nor bitch I’m sweet as pie
You hate me, babe and I know why
You can’t put me in a box and it pisses you off!
Scoff at my shoes while you’re eating my dust
in this lifetime it’s Be or Bust–
so find your own fucking drummer.