King of Piss and Paper

How can we sing about ourselves? How can we sing about love? How can we not sing about love? How can we not sing about ourselves? When the king is made of paper And the king is made of piss The king is coming down the fucking wall I am a stranger to religion fear I have no claim to the tears of the queer But I know it keeps the blind man's white cane near The blind man keeps the white cane near And now the king is made of paper And the king is made of piss The king is coming down the fucking wall It was some self-fulfilling prophecy And we just hung it up Hung it up on the gossip tree Saw a generation under me Crying on the news Oh, I guess they have the blues Crying on the news Oh, I guess they have the blues How can you not sing about love? How can we not sing about ourselves? How can we, how can we sing about ourselves? How can we sing, sing about love? When the king is made of paper And the king is made of piss The king is coming down the fucking wall And the king is walking upright No, the king is on all fours The king is coming down, down, down To kill us all