Paper Tigers of the Suburbs

They mow the lawns as evenly as other people's inner thoughts,
Behind the picket fences hiding teeth anticipating drama.
Inside their heads, all meanings have long rotted into tangled knots,
Yet everyone portrays a fortress in this diorama.


But by the evening all facades reveal the fractures and the fights,
Where rumors slither through the basements like a heavy mist.
From bedrooms crawl the muffled accusations of the quiet nights,
While in their souls smolders deceit they simply can't resist.

Припев
The paper tigers of the suburbs,
Growling from the curtains in the gloom.
With no other sentences to serve them,
In the cozy hollow of their room.
They want the jungle, dreaming of the battle,
But their claws are stuck within the rugs.
Their greatest prayer among the mindless prattle,
Is hiding all the quiet fear that tugs.


The rustling papers forecast storms inside a cup of Earl Grey tea,
The credit rating dictates rhythm for their pulsing, weary veins.
They're growing older without any true regret that they can see,
Just waiting for some perfect but entirely bloodless gains.


The same fake fireplace that doesn't have a spark of true despair,
And locked-up doors to a world that feels so far away.
They simply ran away from any truly wild and real affair,
Locking their expired rations in a solid safe to stay.

Припев
The paper tigers of the suburbs,
Growling from the curtains in the gloom.
With no other sentences to serve them,
In the cozy hollow of their room.
They want the jungle, dreaming of the battle,
But their claws are stuck within the rugs.
Their greatest prayer among the mindless prattle,
Is hiding all the quiet fear that tugs.


And if you throw a match into their papier-m;ch; illusions,
They wouldn't catch on fire, just crumple from the sudden truth.
They lost their fangs so long ago to all their deep confusions,
Leaving only gossip for the cheap bravado of their youth.



Припев
The paper tigers of the suburbs,
Growling from the curtains in the gloom.
With no other sentences to serve them,
In the cozy hollow of their room.
They want the jungle, dreaming of the battle,
But their claws are stuck within the rugs.
Their greatest prayer among the mindless prattle,
Is hiding all the quiet fear that tugs.


Tigers made of paper.
Hiding in the yard.
There won't be a battle.
Fate was dealt a card.
Nevermore.