I've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth. And although my heart is the worst kind of weapon, its not a side effect of the cocaine. I think it must be love. But you're the patron saint of liars and fakes so im sending postcards from a plane crash (wish you were here). When Im with you its like Im reinventing the wheel to run over myself. But youre a concrete boy now so love will only tear us apart. And now Im thinking this must be the calm before the storm which has me considering the pros and cons of breathing short, fast and loud. And of all the gin joints in all the world you're growing up here. But nobody puts baby in the corner so you can tell mick that he just made my list of things to do today. But then I slept with someone in fall out boy and all I got was this stupid song written about me but it was still 7 minutes in heaven and now I know that this will either be the sophomore slump, or the comeback of the year. Chicago is so two years ago, so you should just try and save your generation. But Im thinking its time for a little less sixteen candles, a little more "touch me". And all in all, I say champagne for my real friends, and real pain for my sham friends.