I'm not the man on that stage I was born when my eyes closed, he dies when I wake So composed, so what if I can't sing? He drinks gasoline, and he spits fire Pour me on broken glass for tea A cow's tongue, two bricks for lips Each attempt to speak is a bloody crime scene Will someone call an ambulance? It's critical condition, can you keep a secret? I'm not okay, I hate my friends and I hate my face And now the rats know, who do you think they'll tell? What is this I'm feeling, is it permanent or fleeting? Can I beat it with a stick, or will I die like this? And if I do, does he die too?