the tired ballad of the razor blade and pill
still gives the cowardly a vicarious thrill
put your make-up on to go kill yourself
catcher in the rye displayed on your shelf
you hurt so much because you're strange and weird
you felt this way since your first spot appeared
and how on earth can you get rid of the greasy hair?
yeah, hang yourself it's the only option there
your teenage crush turned out to be a flash in the pan
you're 15 you can't afford to wait for a better man
you tear the poster of your pop idol in half
and no one could accuse you of a studied cynical laugh
you are genuine for sure -- of course you are real
you write it in marker pen because razor cuts don't heal
you're depressed because mom withheld the allowance today
and the bottoms of your best jeans started to fray
isn't that enough reason for you to have to decide
that the only way out is textbook cry-for-help suicide?

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