| And so it's begun | |
| This is year one | |
| The birth of a child in the form of a man | |
| Wrapped in towel | |
| Passed out on the floor | |
| These drunken hours -- graces deflowered | |
| Cast down by an angel | |
| She used to kiss his weeping eyes | |
| Depressed in her bosom | |
| Tears roll off her nipple | |
| Sweet baby, don't cry... | |
| Your tears are only alibis | |
| To prove you still feel -- | |
| You only feel sorry for yourself | |
| Well, get on that cross | |
| That's all you're good for... | |
| And thusly it ends | |
| Depression seeps in on a lonely messiah | |
| Now he drinks with the lepers | |
| Losing a limb, his better half | |
| A glass once half full | |
| A head hung half-mast | |
| He claims he's the victim | |
| Strangled by the nine-to-five | |
| And a pattern of stillness | |
| That haunted this still life | |
| Your tears are only alibis | |
| To prove you still feel | |
| You only feel sorry for yourself | |
| And that's how you thrive | |
| Your sorrow's your goldmine | |
| So write some sad song about me | |
| Screaming your agonies, playing the saint | |
| The Martyr... | |
| The Martyr... | |
| The Martyr... | |
| The Martyr... | |
| The Martyr... | |
| Uh huh... |
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