I got lost in the translation of my life into stage-speech

and I don't know where the dictionary went.

Now the shrillness of their voices is an everyday occurrence;

the stone-set statutes calling to repent, repent—

And I know what I've done,

and I know that the rules I've not broken are hopelessly bent.

But even in my weakness,

there's good to be said for the lies I've not tried to invent.

To put my troubles honestly, honesty kills

when the truth is you're not good enough.

It's a question of nobility, I'd like to suppose,

though answering fairly is tough.

I have blood on my hands and a pilot's position;

it's obviously wiser to hide.

But sooner or later they're bound to find out,

and my confidence will be crucified.

So I'll stand by my sin if it makes me a saint—

for I swore that I'd take the high ground.

And by rainfall I'll watch as they shout from below;

I'll feel righteous in seeing them drown.

There's a heresy that only the brave can commit,

and this albatross hangs here to prove

that I've found a new translation of my stage-spoken life,

in the sacrilege of speaking the truth.