They give you a loaded gun, Then tell you not to shoot your brains out. They tell you that you're wrong, Then refuse to help you out, Perception is reality, And I can't conceive a thing, They wring you by the neck, While saying "come on sweetie, sing!" I can not fill the molds Of your cookie cutter lives. They let you dream of miracles, Then say they won't suffice. Tell me I'm the piece of shit that I know I am. Tell me I'm a lover. Tell me I'm a friend. Send me to my grave With my golden cup Then spit on my ashes As if it weren't enough.