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Come on in,
Sweetie pie.
Have an apple,
have some lye;
leave your friends
righteous and pathetic
standing at the door.

On the books,
all your bets
favor headbands and cassettes,
cigarettes, suffragettes,
and bores.

Sweetheart,
you'll find:

When you moved
from the city,
it seemed the competition got so much
less pretty,
but the,
the mirrors never failed you like this before.

So your revenge
on the world
will be pencils through your curls;
and if wanting
ever taught you anything
it's wanting more,
and more
and more
and more.

Sweetheart,
you'll find:
mediocre people do exceptional things all the time.
Oh, the ruin
we'll do
in your
talented mind;
could've been a genius
if you'd
had an axe to gind.

What to do, oh?
What to do, oh?

When that day
finally nears,
you'll at least have made it clear
that compassion's
just a nicer way of looking down your nose.

Seems that all
the people wanna do
is crowd the streets of Amsterdam
(Pamplona, too),
but
the bulls have already come and gone
and bellowed all their lows.
Now nobody knows:

What to do?
Sweetheart,
you'll find:
mediocre people do exceptional things all the time.
Oh, the ruin
we'll do
in your
talented mind;
could've been a genius
if you'd
had an axe to grind.

What to do, woah?
What to do, woah?
Oh, what to do,
what to do,
what to do, woah.
What to do,
woah!