Everyday i go to work.
I work at a factory on east twelfth street,
But I dont build things,
The factory builds me.
He walks up to the factory,
Made of grey cement.
Another day another buck,
Isnt that what they all preach?
This building's like a gallery.
The paintings are in torment
And they each have a clique.
Cause cliques are what they preach.
The factory creates conformity,
Building all their brains the same,
Effecting us eternally.
They will not except my pen name.
Theres a ladder in the factory,
And every rung's a different clique.
The fallen angel's climbin to the top.
No more sadness,
No more tears,
No more crying for the fallen angel.
No more emo,
No more punk,
Conformity is for the fallen angel.
Or so he thinks.
Looking in the looking glass,
Hes finally liking what he sees.
The steroids work and they work fast,
And hes liking what he sees.
Looking at his friends,
Hes finally liking what he sees.
The fallen angel is popular,
And hes liking what he sees.