Anatomy of Rage

Thoughtfully lighting a cigar in your eyes, I feel that it hurts me more than it hurts you. Where does this pain come from? Where does this fury come from? Where does this anger come from? Where does this word come from? Where the fuck does all this come from? Maniacs are not born — they are made. I was a perfect little boy: I walked holding my mother's hand for a long time, built birdhouses, Rescued kittens from trees, and even helped little old ladies cross the road. I remember my childhood: in a second-floor window I see a girl with glasses. Carefully tilting her little head and sticking out her tongue, She draws something in her diary. I toss a bouquet of dandelions into her window, And in return, you throw a geranium pot right at my head! And you laughed maliciously, you bitch. And so it goes my whole life, so it goes my whole life — a cold shower instead of love. Thoughtfully putting out a cigar in your eyes, I feel that right now, it hurts me more than it hurts you. And the last straw that overflowed the cup of my patience Was the day some scumbags burned down my favorite jazz club. It hurts me more, it hurts me more than it hurts you. The sun doesn't shine, the sun doesn't warm. It hurts me more, it hurts me more than it hurts you.