There are babies with guns
Beheading their friends
In shopping malls around the world
Yet somehow the Kings of Leon
Still find time to write songs about girls
(I don't suck much less)
At least those dudes have no illusions of angst
And hopelessness
And if I play revolutionary
Or I give to charity
They'll all know it's a plea
For someone like me
Disgusted with lies
And cut down by their own beatnick poetry

(I'm just one man with no face and no friends)
God in this dank Brooklyn bar I can feel it again and it's
Eating me
Wait a second
I can't write the same damn song over and over again

I can't define myself
Through irony
And self deprecation
I can't deny myself
Being alive
Through my alienation

Everything that you do
Keeps me running back to you
Can't give up
Live the dream
Even if I don't believe
We can't afford to surrender
We can't afford

Fake players and the twisted web they weave
Oh, I contend that the coming holocaust
Will be of those who choose to believe
Anything but a phallic sense of self
Hang alone in the attic tied up tightly with your father's belt

You bathe in blood
Like Mr. Crowley
Your cost
Their loss
Their memory haunts me
I stand opposed
To chaos that you chose
New heart
New bones
(Am I not alone?)

Fake players are the ones who play the game
(Go to sleep, go to sleep come on)
Fake players are the ones who play the game
(Fake players, Fake players)
Fake players are the ones who play the game
(Go to sleep, go to sleep come on)
Fake players are the ones who play the game
(Fake players!)