Today a son's born in an Ikea manger
And although he's a stranger, you know him too well
Because he was born a killer, an apple eatin' sinner
And to this overwhelming potluck he brings a platter of hell
At age six he's wondering, "how the world be turning?"
Well soon you'll be learning about the conflicts of power
And if you want to get your little finger painting fingers dirty
Just follow these examples and look out for number one
This is my own
This is our own
My own rebellion
I've got ideas that could shake this world
But time is the devil's knuckle ball, so fuck em' all it's mine
At sixteen and pacing, his hormones are racing
And he be skirt chasing, clear-cuttin' through conscience
"It's nonsense" he says, " history is dead
And so are the skeletons hidden under my bed"
35 and steady, ambitious and ready
Open hand to the common man his burden now heavy
Run down he became, moral fabric for fame
Mark Chapman was a killer but you remember his name
Rustic in age maybe good for the sage
But trouble for the futile son no words for his page
So if he can't stay, he'll call it a day
He'll push that button to silence this parade