(Verse 1:) The streetlights hum a factory tune On Postcode 123 My pen’s the only broken thing That feels like it belongs to me I fill the margins of my life With words they’ll never see A symphony of sidewalk cracks And quiet misery (Verse 2:) The headline says the world is endin' In a hundred stupid ways But my war is with the silence And the blank page that betrays I’ve got three hundred aching pages Of a truth they can’t perfume A requiem for grocery stores And fluorescent living rooms (Chorus:) I am the prodigy of Postcode 123! A landfill prophet, can’t you see? The king of the cul-de-sac, the voice of the dead-end street! Screamin' at the sun from my concrete seat! I am… I am… [A single, clean, ominous piano chord rings out. The sludge fades. We are now in a sterile, quiet space. Segue into...] [A single, clean, ominous piano chord rings out. The sludge fades. We are now in a sterile, quiet space. Segue into...] My pen’s the only broken thing That feels like it belongs to me And quiet misery (Verse 2:) The headline says the world is endin' In a hundred stupid ways But my war is with the silence And the blank page that betrays I’ve got three hundred aching pages Of a truth they can’t perfume And quiet misery (Verse 2:) The headline says the world is endin' In a hundred stupid ways But my war is with the silence And the blank page that betrays I’ve got three hundred aching pages Of a truth they can’t perfume A requiem for grocery stores And fluorescent living rooms (Chorus:) I am the prodigy of Postcode 123! A landfill prophet, can’t you see? The king of the cul-de-sac, the voice of the dead-end street! Contract… advance… subsidiary rights… Book tour… interviews… satellite lights… They’re carving up my cemetery… And selling plots for VIP… My words… my words… are not my own… The ink is drying into stone… The ink is drying into stone… [Riff Intro: A single, fuzzed-out, ugly guitar riff repeats four times |TAG: Drums and bass kick in with brute force. | TAG: Riff: DUNH-nuh-nuh-nuh-NUH! Low E string, simple and aggressive] (Verse 1:) So you bought the book, you read the lines You think you know what’s between these spines? You wanna cry? You wanna cheer? The ending’s written, the ending’s clear! I don’t need your analysis Your book club feels, your midnight kiss I’m not your therapy, I’m not your friend This is a business, see you at the end! (Chorus:) And I don’t care! IF YOU READ ME! And I don’t care! IF YOU NEED ME! I got my check, I got my name in lights! I’m burnin’ out for three long nights! I! DON’T! CARE! (Verse 2:) They put my face on a coffee cup They tore the angry bastard up And stitched him back with better threads To sell the dream of nicer beds! So scream the words back in my face In some forgotten market place I’ll be in first class, halfway gone While you debate what I did wrong! (Chorus:) And I don’t care! IF YOU READ ME! And I don’t care! IF YOU NEED ME! I got my check, I got my name in lights! I’m burnin’ out for three long nights! I! DON’T! CARE! [Bridge - Taunt | TAG: Music pulls back slightly, becomes more sparse and menacing. Vocals are a spoken snarl.] What’s the matter? Can’t handle the truth? The product’s flawed? You bought the sleuth? I sold the anger, you bought the cure… Now which one of us is more… pure? AND I DON’T CARE! IF YOU READ ME! AND I DON’T CARE! IF YOU NEED ME! I GOT MY CHECK, I GOT MY NAME IN LIGHTS! I’M BURNIN’ OUT FOR THREE LONG NIGHTS! I! DON’T! CARE! CARE! CARE! [Outro: | TAG: The band plays the chorus riff faster and faster, spiraling out of control. The vocalist lets out one last, wordless, exhausted yell. Everything collapses into a single, ringing, dissonant guitar chord that fades into…|TAG: …the slow, melancholic plinking of a hotel room piano. Segue into...] [Piano Intro: | TAG A simple, circular, minor-key piano waltz Am - G - F - E, It sounds lonely and slightly cheap:] (Verse 1:) Dear Editor… the royalty’s arrived… Another dollar for the words I sterilized… The tour bus is a gilded cage… I’m turning my own youth to page… You asked for blood, I gave you ink… Now watch the paying patrons blink… And tell me that they feel my pain… Through chapters sanitized for rain… (Chorus:) Oh, the binding’s tight, the cover’s clean… A perfect, printed, plastic scene… Of how I screamed before the deal… A fossil that they made me feel… Dear Editor… you won. (Verse 2:) The talk show host, he shook my hand… And said he’d never understand… But bought ten copies for the band… My ghost is in demand! They ask me what the ending means… I smile and give the line you gave… And watch my (verse 1:) so gather ‘round the paperback pyre! we’re selling tickets to the funeral choir! i am the product of your deep desire! the prodigy… now hired! the ink is dry on my epitaph! a two-for-one along the graphic path! they took my scars and drew a map! to the martyr that you have… for half… the price! (pre-chorus:) and the cameras flash like cathedral light! and i’m the saint of the endless night! that you can purchase, read, and quote! the perfect anecdote! (chorus:) i am the tale from another signed contract! the ghost in the machine that you exacted! my suburban heart, attacked and packaged! a rebellion fact-checked and language managed! for the record! for the record! i am… the record! [guitar solo: | tag: a 30-second, incredibly melodic, technically perfect, and utterly soulless guitar solo. it’s all major scales and triumphant bends.] [Verse: | tag: music suddenly drops to just piano and vocals. the triumphant tone is gone, replaced by hollow clarity:] and somewhere… on a greyhound bus… a kid is writing just because… with angry words and dirty hands… and no one understands… [break:] …yet. [Bridge: the band comes back in, even bigger than before. a full choir joins the vocals. it is the ultimate, empty victory march:] i am the tale from another signed contract! the ghost in the machine that you exacted! my suburban heart, attacked and packaged! a rebellion fact-checked and language managed! for the record! for the record! i! am! the! record! [outro : instrumental : | tag: the final sustained chord. the choir holds the note. the guitars ring out. it sounds like the end of a broadway show. it is huge, undeniable, and completely hollow. | tag: then, the sound of a single, synthesized, happy marimba melody that sounds like a corporate hold music jingle. it plays for 5 seconds before being abruptly cut off] [ ends]:
