there is a certain type of genius who is proud to know so much he skipped a thousand showers cause he doesn t need to touch he hides his bastard faces behind thick panes of glass they re all that seperates him from the apish lower class and the stench of love keeps sneaking up his nose through all the snot his sinuses can hold believing all the lies that he s been told grows old so old a friday night alone with friends he s got but one or two they re geniuses like him you see nothing like all of you they banter and they languish with all ostentatious plea they re all so trendy and which they re underground machines and he won t be there when jesus comes around he ll write a book on what his studies found and deep inside he ll learn to fear the sound of hope of hope he says why should i even try i will let the oil soak in my face until the pimples shine like tiny mountains set in place this lonely valley mine between the hills of opulence they grow with strength and time scarlet clusters spring from skin to hide my missing spots and he won t be there when jesus comes around he ll write a book on what his studies found and deep inside he ll want to hear the sound of hope of hope when the world stabs you in the back the worst thing you could do is become indifferent to there is no they no idiot brigade only a thousand yous equally as bruised