I can barely hear the screams 'Cause the screens, they control me I'm a narcissist fit, and inherited rich I'm a sneaky little son of a bitch But I can tell you how I feel Don't necessarily mean it's real I've got no more appeal to steal I'm on my way out The fancy things and the shiny scenes Don't do anything for me Get on your knees and cry, type and whine Poisoned reassurance for your fragile mind Well, she's got a Molotov cocktail temperament coming at me And I don't care about anything else I'm on my way out