I'm the son of rage and love
The Jesus of suburbia
From the Bible of none of the above
On a steady diet of
Soda pop and Ritalin
No one ever died for my
Sins in hell, as far as I can tell
At least the ones I've gotten away with
And there's nothing wrong with me
This is how I'm supposed to be
In a land of make believe
That don't believe in me
Get my television fix
Sitting on my crucifix
The living room or my private womb
While the moms and brads are away
To fall in love and fall in debt
To alcohol and cigarettes
And Mary Jane to keep me insane
And doing someone else's cocaine
And there's nothing wrong with me
This is how I'm supposed to be
In a land of make believe
That don't believe in me

At the center of the earth
In the parking lot
Of the 7-11 were I was taught
The motto was just a lie
It says home is were your heart is
But what a shame!
Cause everyone's heart doesn't beat the same
We're beating out of time

City of the dead
At the end of another lost highway
Signs misleading to nowhere
No one really seems to care

I read the graffiti
In the bathroom stall
Like the holy scriptures of a shopping mall
And so it seemed to confess