there is a certain type of genius
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who is proud to know so much
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he skipped a thousand showers
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cause he doesn't need to touch
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he hides his bastard faces
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behind thick panes of glass
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they're all that seperates him
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from the apish lower class
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and the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nose
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through all the snot his sinuses can hold
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believing all the lies that he's been told
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grows old, so old
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a friday night alone with friends
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he's got but one or two
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they're geniuses like him, you see
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nothing like all of you
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they banter and they languish
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with all ostentatious plea
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they're all so trendy and which
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they're underground machines
|
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and he wont be there when jesus comes around
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he'll write a book on what his studies found
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and deep inside he'll learn to fear the sound
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of hope, of hope
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he says why should i even try
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i will let the oil soak in my face
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until the pimples shine
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like tiny mountains set in place
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this lonely valley, mine
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between the hills of opulence
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they grow with strength and time
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scarlet clusters spring from skin
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to hide my missing spots
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and he wont be there when jesus comes around
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he'll write a book on what his studies found
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And deep inside he'll want to hear the sound
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of hope, of hope
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when the world stabs you in the back
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the worst thing you could do
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is become indifferent to
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there is no 'they'
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no idiot brigade
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only a thousand yous
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equally as bruised
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A Certain Type Of Genius
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| Say Anything |
