there is a certain type of genius who is proud to know so much he skipped a thousand showers cause he doesn't need to touch he hides his ba*tard faces behind thick panes of gla** they're all that seperates him from the apish lower cla** and the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nose through all the snot his sinuses can hold believing all the lies that he's been told grows old, so old a friday night alone with friends he's got but one or two they're geniuses like him, you see nothing like all of you they banter and they languish with all ostentatious plea they're all so trendy and which they're underground machines and he wont be there when jesus comes around he'll write a book on what his studies found and deep inside he'll learn to fear the sound of hope, of hope he says why should i even try i will let the oil soak in my face until the pimples shine like tiny mountains set in place this lonely valley, mine between the hills of opulence they grow with strength and time scarlet clusters spring from skin to hide my missing spots and he wont be there when jesus comes around he'll write a book on what his studies found And deep inside he'll want to hear the sound of hope, of hope when the world stabs you in the back the worst thing you could do is become indifferent to there is no 'they' no idiot brigade only a thousand yous equally as bruised