He tiptoes down the hallways but everyone knows he’s coming.
Blowing kisses that drip blasphemy and funky-retro tunes, he’s well-known in those parts.
Perched on rooftops he watches the civilians pass, and sometimes he spits.
Lying among tulips and lilies, he calls himself Jesus but everyone knows it’s not his real name.

This kid is so fucked up, the people around him say, this kid is so fucked up,
Insanity’s glittering through his eyes like ice through tropical storms.
The phone rings and he picks it up, but nobody’s there (and he can hear their breath.)
And this kid is so fucked up, that’s what the people say.

Dressed in rag tag clothing from thrift shops and tickle trunks, he haunts school halls.
With sunglasses made too big for his face, no one can see the tears that fog the lens.
That’s why he bumps into things and puts hands in front of him like blind men.
It’s the tears (and this kid is so fucked up, he’s too crazy to see, that’s what they say.)

Lying among the tulips, he’s Jesus, and he preaches the word of the tragically hip.
“Be happy and get confused by the world around you.”
This is the sermon in his church made of flowers and trees and an old wooden swing,
And the rosary he wears is a plastic necklace he got from a vending machine

What’s important isn’t that he’s kind to everyone but that he’s kind to himself.
No one is shown to the door at his church, as long as the people are happy.
The grass brushes his ankles and the wind whips his hair, and that old swing–
The chain creaks as it moves slowly back and forth; only a few inches, but it creaks.

And the chain round his neck, it creaks, too, when he yanks on it at night.
At night, crying without sunglasses, he pulls out hair and throws pillows.
At night, there’s a peace like heaven’s wrath as he storms through his room, the strongest wind.
At night, he’s definitely confused by the world, but he’s not happy.

He betrays his own lord, and more importantly, he betrays himself.
This kid is so fucked up, he can’t follow the rules he’s set down himself.
He’s sad and tired and he’s getting headaches where he yanks at his locks.
The phone rings and he picks it up, but nobody’s there (and he can hear their breath.)

He wonders if it’s the spirit of the LORD, the lord-retro, the lord-art,
The lord that gives him inspiration to dress in these outfits of plaid used clothes, and frilly lace.
He gets inspiration to write from this guy and he knows life because of him,
He knows flowers and trees and that swing, and he wonders if it’s Him on the phoneline.

This lord– he tiptoes down the hallways, but everyone knows he’s coming.
Blowing kisses that drip blasphemy and funky-retro tunes, he’s well-known in those parts.
Lying among the tulips, he calls himself Jesus but everyone knows it’s not his real name.
And this kid is so fucked up, he’s about to get kicked out of a congregation he made up.