I'll write a stereotypical song
Like how my future is uncertain and all
'Cause every song I write seems to be my last
I'm struggling to comprehend, this music thing won't last

You've probably heard this a hundred times before
But imp not really here, I'm really thirty-four
Stuck doing something, something that I hate
God I'm so desperate
I hate I hate I hate

If I hit my head, hard at the back
Would I still be me?
Is it something that I lack?
If something changed in there, would the real me be dead
I think about this shit too much
It's quite literally in my head

Like your bud on a Friday night
I'll be there when you're getting high
Its a false sense of liberation
We're all stuck in a simulation

Wrap your hair in a bun
Now then tons of fun
Think you know everything
But you're stuck on the fence on important things