I bide my time

By the pen of my desk

"I thought that you were funny"

"They told me you were funny"

They thought wrong

I say the things they don't wanna hear

But I sing

Sing them anyways

But these are the ones they tune out

"Play us all your silly songs"

"And then we'd start to sing along"

Now it's the burning of the books I made

It's the burning of the books I made

I have not a voice and name

As my work goes up in flames

I hide my face from the crowd at large

I tried to ditch from this town after dark

But I stuck out to the crowd

And they thought I was too loud

And they put me through this trial

So I think I'll stay for awhile

And the flames start to trickle away

The remnants of the books I made

I can't even show my face

Since I showed them all the books I made

On the same way

On the same train

Has it always been this way?

As we watch it and see it fade?

And are there any explanations to these wild conundrums occurring as of late?

And you took the hardest way out

Go and run away

Go and run away

Go and hide away

Just go and hide away