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I'm the son of rage an love, the Jesus of Suburbia, the Bible of, none of the above. In a steady diet of soda, pop and ritalin. No one ever died for my sins in hell as far as I can tell. At least the ones I got away with.And there's nothing wrong with me, this is how I'm supposed to be in a land of make believe, that don't believe in me. Get my television fix sitting on my crucifix. The living room or my private womb. While the Mom's and Brad's are away. To fall in love and fall in debt, to alcohol and cigarettes and Mary Jane, to keep me insane, doing someone else's cocaine.

And there's nothing wrong with me

This is how I'm supposed to be

In a land of make believe

That don't believe in me

At the center of the Earth in the parking lot of the 7-11 where I was taught the motto was just a lie it says home is where your heart is but what a shame 'Cause everyone's heart doesn't beat the same it's beating out of time

City of the dead at the end of another lost highway signs misleading to nowhere city of the damned lost children with dirty faces today no one really seems to care

I read the graffiti in the bathroom stall like the holy scriptures of a shopping mall and so it seemed to confess it didn't say much but it only confirmed that the center of the earth is the end of the world and I could really care less.

City of the dead at the end of another lost highway signs misleading to nowhere city of the damned lost children with dirty faces today no one really seems to care.