Boys run like water from the barrel to the trough,
they'll never stop their running
Gunning for their brothers
This house is a hostel, it is peaceful, but it's always emptying
Boys all want to be someone

Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar
Feeding the facts to false fires
Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire
(But I'll score your string ensemble)

I saw my son at seventeen,
the shudders made projections on his naked frame
But now at twenty-five, he simply cannot stay away from the ketamine
With make-up on his sores,
he spends an hour a day composing his own eulogy
Sometimes he sends me letters,
but they're mostly garbled phrases and apologies

Haven't you heard? I am a flightless bird, I am a liar
Feeding the facts to false fires
Pathos is borne, borne out of bullshit in formal attire
(Append a Bulgarian children's choir)