I see them in the streets, and don’t feel their eyes.
If they drive by and holler, I don’t feel their cries.
I feel a sense that I’m someone else;
not born from them, but born from some fog.
Lies, all they do is perform their lies.
Did Daddy tell you not to lie,
then tell you how to lie?
Rolling-paper-Egos propped up by illusion,
I feel maybe that’s where we can meet.
I’ll chip away your illusion,
and you can feed mine,
and then we can pretend that we’re happy and fine.