| Turning over in interrupted slumber
 | 
| You ponder others, growing ever wakeful
 | 
| You’ve locked the vermin in the other bedroom
 | 
| To be so perfect causes you to feel so thankful
 | 
| Now find the fault because your boyfriend can’t read
 | 
| Reflecting on to you is that the bitterness you need
 | 
| So unhappy, yet so preoccupied
 | 
| Never found, beaten down, with your forked tongue tied
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Queen dependency is cowering, please don’t be confused
 | 
| You are vacant and submissive, receptive to abuse
 | 
| Virtue isn’t tangible, and sense of self is dated
 | 
| Names constant on your cracked lips are now eviscerated
 | 
| Your spine is made of metal, your veins are 'lectric tape
 | 
| And all along an impulse lights at random in your fa-ace
 | 
| Cough up an offering, forget which words are lies
 | 
| Then your skull echoes a singeing pop, your brain is cauterized
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Within the walls I hear all of its legs
 | 
| There must be so many to carry over our heads
 | 
| Seething and unsettled and, oh, such a let down
 | 
| Some rusty spokes inside my head are making such a grating Sound
 | 
| Your legacy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Your eulogy is like poetry
 | 
| But, your mouth is like a magazine
 | 
| Yeah! | 
| Yeah!
 | 
| Yeah! | 
| Yeah!
 | 
| Yeah! | 
| Whoa! |