(I've heard of psychiatry before
In a textbook my father owned
The pills he wanted me to take
Pretended I never saw them)
It wasn't their hands on me, in me,
I'm just not that weak.
It was that they made me feel weak. I'm not.
They're all fucking dead. I'm not.
The Basement at Springvale School
Is where I learned the lessons my father wouldn't teach.
(I've heard of love before
In a book by a long-dead German
Read it to someone who would understand
He said it was something different)
They called me strange things,
In the garbled language of their high.
Sticks and stones,
Golf clubs and baseball bats.
The building still stands there, gray, immobile.
Instead my world moves around the ruins.
(I've heard of trust before
From the mouth of someone
Who had no choice but to obey
Crushed underground because of me)
Even now I would know their faces
Their baseball bats, golf clubs, cocks.
I'd show you where they shot me
Full of drugs I have no names for. A waste.
Growing stupidly careless over time, but I don't know how much
I killed them one by one, two by two.
(I've known of happiness before
From a girl beneath the ground
She was so beautiful bright and alive
I hope that's still true)