One minute to midnight two-thousand-and-nine I’m falling asleep at the party I’m hanging nearby to this one girl I like But she ends up kissing my buddy It’s all material, such good material I am a writer inside of a clown It’s all material, such good material When I get older I’ll write this all down One minute to midnight, two-thousand-nineteen You’re throwing up in the backseat My friends say that you’re not treating me right They don’t understand why I’m happy It’s all material, such good material My toxic relationship, just like on TV It’s all material, such good material Think of how great of a story we’ll be Self describer, over-analyzer A whole lot older a little bit wiser You don't pick the sets, the events or survivors You're not a god, you’re the punch up writer Happy New Year, here’s a plague and some locusts Still I try not to focus on what I can’t do I sit in the sun and I write out a poem About all the beauty in my little room And it’s all materiel, such good material All of this pain, I decide what it means It’s all material, such good material I can’t control what'll happen to me I only decide what the story will be