I give birth

To drum beats

Upon the rise of my temples

There is a little god inside this head

Reality has been repressed

Wrapped up safe in the bed

Of childhood, dread

That I cannot break free

Of these age old beliefs

That are disguised as religion

It is the neighbor's decision

To hate or think outside the lines

The parking lines are for a reason,

but the blacktop is the children's season



oh, it is the words that bleed

not in reverse

it's the translations curse

and the traditions worse

can't you see what this time needs


he lives inside

he fits inside

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