Life as a character in a paperback novel,
With drama, tears, silly dialogue, without a model,
Of everday contentment,
Cause we don't mean shit to the kid that gets hit,
By his burly Pa, who drinks eight glasses of water a day,
To stave away physical breakdown,
By eating his daughters ambitions with custody teeth,
That don't sign freedom papers,
To give back hope to the kid that doesn't joke,
Sit's back and appears to mope,
Doesn't dare to hope,
That his face will contain the secrets,
So he doesn't get maimed by the fury,
Of a parental Jury,
Hit 'til his vision gets blurry,
And he has to hurry to a sink,
But not to drink,
But to bleed into a white porcalin bandage,
That saves the mess, not the damage.