He wakes himself up with a monkey wrench, straightens
out his spine,

he does it all the time, everytime.

no matter how hard he may scrub, he's just rubbing it
in.

he washes his hair with a bar of soap, but it doesnt
get it clean.

its like a smack in the face, or a shot in the arm,

he doesnt appear but he doesnt do any harm.

he'd rather just sustain in his comfortable routine,

his comfortable routine and a mad magazine

chorus:

he's got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched
across his bones.

theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,

and feeling all alone

he's got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched
across his bones.

theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,

and feeling all alone

sits on the curb from dusk till dawn, he's peeling off
his core,

ripped up and torn

its better living through chemistry, its an escape,

its a vulnerability, and then the twilight comes