My alter-ego
He's an escape artist
He's only truly happy when he's under arrest
Oh how he handsome, scheduled to hang to death
He's only truly happy at the precipice

He's like a mirror
He sticks into our ears
A stethoscope to the chest of the vacant years
I can't escape the chair
I'm etherized with fear
That my only talent is in hanging here

But then it's
Hey boy, I've got your man he's right here
Putty in my hands
Ice cream and sweets
Coming in the sheets
He got no excuse to leave

but in the real world, an intertidal cave
I ride a desk chair waiting for a tidal wave
I feel like dancing
but that is miles away
I'm feeling hard and hollow like paper mache

My alter ego
He's in a jailer's cage
He sits and waits for the devil to abet his escape
I'm sorry pastor, I can't be pasteurized
All of the bibles in the world for a metal file

and every clock strike
he hears the jailers keys
and the doubt starts to sprout till he's on his knees
and he remembers like it's his mother's call
to feel his hand find a grip at the top of the wall

I wanna feel it
I wanna feel the fire
of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles
I want to feel it
I want to feel the fire
of the leftover sun on the roofing tiles

But then it's
Hey boy, I've got your man he's right here
Putty in my hands
Ice cream and sweets
Coming in the sheets
He got no excuse to leave