he wakes himself up with a monkey wrench, straightens out his spine,
he does it all the time, everytime
no matter how hard he may scrub, he's just rubbing it in
he washes his hair with a bar of soap, but it doesnt get it clean

its like a smack in the face, or a shot in the arm,
he doesnt appear but he doesnt do any harm
he'd rather just sustain in his comfortable routine,
his comfortable routine and a mad magazine

chorus:
he's got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched across his bones
theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,
and feeling all alone
he's got a ball point pen tattoo on the skin streched across his bones
theres nothing worse than being in a crowded room,
and feeling all alone

sits on the curb from dusk till dawn, he's peeling off his core,
ripped up and torn
its better living through chemistry, its an escape,
its a vulnerability, and then the twilight comes