Text: Bad Religion. Recipe For Hate. Struck A Nerve.

:
there's an old man on a city bus
holding a candy cane,
and it isn't even Christmas,
he sees a note in the obituary that
his last friend has died,
there's an infant clinging to
his overweight mother as they go to
shop for cigarettes,
and she spends her last dollar
for a bottle of vodka for tonight
and I guess it struck a nerve,
like I had to squint my eyes,
you can never get out of the line of sight,
like a barren winter day,
or a patch of unburned green,
like a tragic real dream,
i guess it struck a nerve
every day I wander in negative disposition,
as I'm bombarded by superlatives,
realizing very well that I'm not alone,
introverted i look to tomorrow for salvation,
but I'm thinking altruistically,
and a wave of overwhelming doubt
turns me to stone
and I guess it struck a nerve,
sent a murmur through my heart,
we just haven't got time to crack the maze,
like a magic speeding clock,
or a cancer in our sells,
a collision in the dark,
I guess it struck a nerve
I try to close my eyes,
but I cannot ignore the stimuli,
if there's a purpose for us all
it remains a secret to me,
don't ask me to justify my life.