I don’t want to be an American idiot, don’t want a nation under the new mania – and can you hear the sound of hysteria? The subliminal mind fuck America. Welcome to a new kind of tension all across the alienation, where everything isn’t meant to be okay. Television dreams of tomorrow, we’re not the ones who’re meant to follow – for that’s enough to argue. Well, maybe I’m the faggot America. I’m not a part of a redneck agenda. Now everybody do the propaganda and sing along to the age of paranoia. I don’t want to be an American idiot. One nation controlled by the media, information age of hysteria, it’s calling out to idiot America.
I’m the son of rage and love, the Jesus Of Suburbia, from the Bible of none of the above on a steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin. No-one ever died for my sins in hell as far as I can tell, at least the ones I got away with. And there’s nothing wrong with me. This is how I’m supposed to be in a land of make-believe that don’t believe in me. Get my television fix, sitting on my crucifix – the living room or my private womb, while the Moms and Brads are away… To fall in love and fall in debt to alcohol and cigarettes and mary-jane to keep me insane, doing someone else’s cocaine. At the centre of the Earth in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven where I was taught, the motto was just a lie. It says home is where your heart is, but what a shame, because everyone’s heart doesn’t beat the same – it’s beating out of time. City of the dead at the end of another lost highway – signs misleading to nowhere. City of the damned, lost children with dirty faces today – no-one really seems to care. I read the graffiti in the bathroom stall like the holy scriptures of a shopping mall, and so it seemed to confess – it didn’t say much but it only confirmed that the centre of the Earth is the end of the world, and I could really care less. I don’t care if you don’t care… I don’t care! Everyone’s so full of shit. Born and raised by hypocrites, hearts recycled but never saved from the cradle to the grave. We are the kids of war and peace from Anaheim to the Middle East. We are the stories and disciples of the Jesus Of Suburbia. Land of make-believe and it don’t believe in me, and I don’t care. Dearly beloved, are you listening? I can’t remember a word that you were saying. Are we demented or am I disturbed? The space that’s in between insane and insecure… Oh therapy, can you please fill the void – am I retarded or am I just overjoyed? Nobody’s perfect and I stand accused for lack of a better word, and that’s my best excuse. To live and not to breathe is to die in tragedy. To run, to run away – to find what you believe. And I leave behind this hurricane of fucking lies. I lost my faith to this, this town that don’t exist – so I run, I run away to the lights of masochists. And I walked this line a million and one fucking times, but not this time. I don’t feel any shame, I won’t apologise when there ain’t nowhere you can go. Running away from pain when you’ve been victimised, tales from another broken home… You’re leaving home.
Hear the sound of the falling rain coming down like an Armageddon flame. The shame, the ones who died without a name. Hear the dogs howling out of key to a hymn called Faith & Misery and bleed, the company lost the war today. I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies. This is the dawning of the rest of our lives on holiday. Hear the drum pounding out of time, another protester has crossed the line to find the money’s on the other side. Can I get another Amen? There’s a flag wrapped around a score of men – a gag, a plastic bag on a monument. The representative from Jingletown has the floor… Zieg Heil to the president Gasman, bombs away is your punishment. Pulverise the Eiffel towers who criticise your government. BANG BANG goes the broken glass and kill all the fags that don’t agree. Trials by fire, setting fire is not a way that’s meant for me. Just because we’re outlaws… I beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies. This is the dawning of the rest of our lives, this is our lives on holiday.
I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known. I don’t know where it goes, but it’s home to me and I walk alone. I walk this empty street on the Boulevard Of Broken Dreams where the city sleeps, and I’m the only one and I walk alone. My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me. My shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating. Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me, till then I walk alone. I’m walking down the line that divides me somewhere in my mind, on the border line of the edge and where I walk alone. Read between the lines of what’s fucked up and everything’s alright. Check my vital signs to know I’m still alive, and I walk alone.
Starry nights, city lights coming down over me. Skyscrapers and stargazers in my head. Are we the waiting? Unknown. This dirty town is burning down in my dreams. Lost and found, city bound in my dreams. And they’re screaming – are we the waiting? Forget-me-nots and second thoughts live in isolation, heads or tails and fairytales in my mind. Are we the waiting? Unknown. The rage and love, the story of my life – the Jesus Of Suburbia is a lie. And they’re screaming – are we the waiting? Unknown.
St Jimmy’s coming down across the alleyway, up on the Boulevard like a zip gun on parade. Lights of a silhouette – he’s insubordinate, coming at you on the count of ONE TWO THREE FOUR. My name is Jimmy and you better not wear it out, the suicide commando that your mother talked about. King of the forty thieves and I’m here to represent the needle in the vein of the establishment. I’m the patron saint of the denial with an angel face and a taste for suicidal. Cigarettes and ramen and a little bag of dope… I am the son of a bitch and Edgar Allan Poe. Raised in the city in a halo of lights, and product of war and fear that we’ve been victimised. Are you talking to me? I’ll give you something to cry about. My name is St Jimmy, I’m a son of a gun. I’m the one that’s from the way outside – a teenage assassin executing some fun in the cult of the life of crime. I really hate to say it but I told you so, so shut your mouth before I shoot you down, old boy. Welcome to the club and give me some blood, I’m the resident leader of the lost and found. It’s comedy and tragedy – it’s St Jimmy, and that’s my name… and don’t wear it out!
Take away the sensation inside, a bittersweet migraine in my head. It’s like a throbbing toothache of the mind, I can’t take this feeling any more. Drain the pressure from the swelling, this sensation’s overwhelming. Give me a long kiss goodnight and everything will be alright. Tell me that I won’t feel a thing, give me novacaine. Out of body and out of mind… Kiss the demons out of my dreams. I get the funny feeling that’s alright, Jimmy says it’s better than air – I’ll tell you why. Tell me, Jimmy, I won’t feel a thing, and give me novacaine.
She’s a rebel, she’s a saint – she’s the salt of the Earth, and she’s dangerous. She’s a rebel vigilante, the missing link on the brink of destruction. From Chicago to Toronto, she’s the one that they call ol’ Whatsername. She’s the symbol of resistance, and she’s holding on my heart like a hand grenade. Is she dreaming what I’m thinking? Is she the mother of all bombs? She’s going to detonate. Is she trouble like I’m trouble? Make it a double twist of fate, or a melody. She sings the revolution – the dawning of our lives. She brings this liberation that I just can’t define – nothing comes to mind. She’s a rebel, and she’s dangerous.
She’s an extraordinary girl in an ordinary world, and she can’t seem to get away. He lacks the courage in his mind like a child left behind, like a pet left in the rain. She’s all alone again, wiping the tears from her eyes. Some days he feels like dying – she gets so sick of crying. She sees the mirror of herself, an image she wants to sell to anyone willing to buy. He steals the image in her kiss from her heart’s apocalypse, from the one called Whatsername. Some days he feels like dying, some days it’s not worth trying – now that they both are finding she gets so sick of crying. She’s an extraordinary girl.
Nobody likes you. Everyone left you. They’re all out without you having fun. Where have all the bastards gone? The underbelly stacks up ten high. The dummy failed the crash test collecting unemployment checks, like a flunkie along for the ride. Where have all the riots gone – as the city’s motto gets pulverised? What’s in love is now in debt on your birth certificate, so strike the fucking match to light this fuse. The town bishop is an extortionist, and he don’t even know that you exist. Standing still when it’s do or die, you better run for your fucking life. It’s not over till you’re underground. It’s not over before it’s too late. This city’s burning – it’s not my burden. It’s not over before it’s too late, there is nothing left to analyse. Where will all the martyrs go when the virus cures itself – and where will we all go when it’s too late? Don’t look back. You’re not the Jesus Of Suburbia. The St Jimmy is a figment of your father’s rage and your mother’s love – it made me the idiot, America. She said I can’t take this place, I’m leaving it behind. She said I can’t take this town, I’m leaving you tonight.
Summer has come and passed. The innocent can never last. Wake me up when September ends. Like my father’s come to pass, seven years has gone so fast. Here comes the rain again, falling from the stars – drenched in my pain again, becoming who we are. As my memory rests, but never forgets what I lost, wake me up when September ends. Ring out the bells again, like we did when spring began. Wake me up when September ends. Like my father’s come to pass, twenty years has gone so fast. Wake me up when September ends.
My heart is beating from me. I am standing all alone. Please call me only if you are coming home. Waste another year flies by, waste a night or two – you taught me how to live. In the streets of shame where you’ve lost your dreams in the rain, there’s no signs of hope – the stems and seeds of the last of the dope. There’s a glow of light – the St Jimmy is the spark in the night bearing gifts and trust… The fixture in the city of lust. What the hell’s your name? What’s your pleasure and what is your pain? Do you dream too much? Do you think what you need is a crutch? In the crowd of pain, St Jimmy comes without any shame. He says we’re fucked up but we’re not the same, and Mom and Brad are the ones you can blame. Jimmy died today. He blew his brains out into the bay. In the states of mind, it’s my own private suicide. Well, nobody cares – does anyone care if nobody cares? Jesus is filling out paperwork now at the facility on East 12th Street. He’s not listening to a word now, he’s in his own world and he’s daydreaming. He’d rather be doing something else now, like cigarettes and coffee with the underbelly. His life’s on the line with anxiety now – and she had enough, and he had plenty. Somebody get me out of here. Anybody get me out of here. Somebody get me out of here. Get me the fuck right out of here. So far away, I don’t want to stay… Get me out of here right now. I just wanna be free, is there a possibility? This life-like dream ain’t for me. I fell asleep while watching Spike TV after 10 cups of coffee, and you’re still not here. Dreaming of a song, but something went wrong and I can’t tell anyone – because no one’s here. You left me here alone, and I should have stayed home – after 10 cups of coffee I’m thinking where’d you go? Nobody likes you. Everyone left you. They’re all out without you having fun. Where’d you go? I got a rock n’ roll band. I got a rock n’ roll life. I got a rock n’ roll girlfriend and another ex-wife. I got a rock n’ roll house. I got a rock n’ roll car. I play the shit out of the drums, and I can play the guitar. I got a kid in New York, and I got a kid in the bay. I haven’t drank or smoked nothing in over twenty-two days so get off of my case. Here they come marching down the street like a desperation murmur of a heart beat – coming back from the edge of town underneath their feet. The time has come and it’s going nowhere. Nobody ever said that life was fair now. Go-karts and guns are treasures they will bear in the summer heat. The world is spinning around and around, out of control again – from the 7-Eleven to the fear of breaking down. So send my love a letterbomb, and visit me in hell – we’re the ones going home. I started fucking running as soon as my feet touched ground. We’re back in the barrio but to you and me, that’s Jingletown. That’s home. We’re coming home again. Nobody likes you. Everyone left you. They’re all out without you having fun.
I thought I ran into you down on the street, but then it turned out to only be a dream. I made a point to burn all of the photographs. She went away and then I took a different path. I remember the face but I can’t recall the name – now I wonder how Whatsername has been. Seems that she disappeared without a trace – did she ever marry old What’s-His-Face? Remember whatever – it seems like forever ago. The regrets are useless in my mind, because she’s in my head. I must confess from so long ago. And in the darkest night, if my memory serves me right I’ll never turn back time. I’m forgetting you, but not the time.

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