How can we sing about ourselves?
How can we sing about love?
How can we not sing about love?
How can we not sing about ourselves?

When the king is made of paper
And the king is made of piss
The king is coming down the fucking wall

I am a stranger to religion fear
I have no claim to the tears of the queer
But I know it keeps the blind man's white cane near
The blind man keeps the white cane near

And now the king is made of paper
And the king is made of piss
The king is coming down the fucking wall

It was some self-fulfilling prophecy
And we just hung it up
Hung it up on the gossip tree
Saw a generation under me
Crying on the news
Oh, I guess they have the blues

Crying on the news
Oh, I guess they have the blues

How can you not sing about love?
How can we not sing about ourselves?
How can we, how can we sing about ourselves?
How can we sing, sing about love?

When the king is made of paper
And the king is made of piss
The king is coming down the fucking wall

And the king is walking upright
No, the king is on all fours
The king is coming down, down, down
To kill us all