the daughter

Lyrics

Harley, sweet Harley, sitting on the throne of lies,
Daddy’s little bullshitter, look at the size
Of the ego she carries, like a crown made of dirt,
Trying to hide the fact that she’s really just hurt.
Once upon a time, you could be so pretty,
Walking down the street in your own little city,
A polished little porcelain, waiting for the light,
But then you open your mouth, and it’s a terrifying sight.
​[Beat shifts – softer acoustic melody fades into a grinding, heavy bass]
​Yeah, you start with the smile, the innocent grace,
But that winey, baby attitude is all over your face.
It leaks out your pores like a toxic sweat,
You’re the biggest disappointment that I’ve ever met.
It gets real ugly, faster than you blink,
Faster than a reputation sinking in the sink.
Like father, like daughter, the bloodline is stained,
A heritage of nonsense that can’t be explained.
​Same look, same ugly, same emptiness inside,
Nowhere to run, Harley, nowhere to hide.
Just like your father, the man who never bothered,
To teach you a thing besides the lies he’s fathered.
An heirloom globetrotter, dragging all that weight,
Of bad decisions and a twisted, plastic fate.
And if you don't believe me, if you think I'm being cruel,
Go and ask your father, that king of the fool.
​The future prospector of Billy Little Willy,
Making sure the legacy stays consistently silly.
You’re a walking, talking, breathing mistake,
How much more of this vanity can we really take?
Take your ass to school, get a book in your hand,
Learn how the world works, try to understand
That the world doesn’t pivot on your little whim,
You’re drowning in the shallow end, learning how to swim.
​Keep your ass in school, sit down and behave,
Before you dig yourself into an early mental grave.
You’re a rotten apple, hanging on a dead branch,
Do I need to change your name? Should I take a chance?
Harley Snapple? Sounds sweet, doesn't it, dear?
But you’re just fermented juice and insincere fear.
Rotten to the core, from the peel to the pit,
You’re the punchline of a joke, and you don’t even get it.
​They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,
And standing in the orchard, it’s all that I see.
The gnarled old bark, the poisoned, sour root,
You’re the bitter byproduct, the moldy forbidden fruit.
And if you don’t believe me, if you’re looking for the truth,
Go and ask your mother, she’s been waiting in the booth.
She’s the architect of chaos, the queen of the pain,
Satan’s daughter, running circles in your brain.
​[Spoken Interlude – Sarcastic, mocking tone]
Oh, Harley. Did I hurt your feelings?
Did the mean old song make you want to cry?
That’s that Kidder DNA, isn’t it?
That high-pitched whine that nobody can stand.
You think you’re special? You think you’re distinct?
You’re just a photocopy of a photocopy of a disaster.
Billy’s shadow is big, but you’re just the stain on the sidewalk.
"Daddy's little girl." Yeah, that's what they call you.
But we all know what that really means, don't we?
It means you’re just a tool in his shed.
And he’s already broken you.
​[Music intensifies – aggressive, driving percussion]
​You’re a masterpiece of mediocrity, a marvel of the mess,
Dressed up in a drama that nobody would guess.
You want the attention? You want the whole stage?
Here it is, darling, read the opening page.
It’s a memoir of failure, written in crayon,
Trying to keep the lights on, keeping the display on.
But the bulbs are burnt out, the wiring is frayed,
You’re the cost of the sins that your father has paid.
​You look in the mirror and what do you see?
A glimpse of the future that’s waiting to be?
Or do you see the ghost of the bullshitter’s ghost?
The one that we’re laughing at, coast to coast.
You think you’re above it, you think you’re the prize,
But the reflection just mocks you with empty, dull eyes.
It’s tragic, really, the way that you try,
To hold up the ceiling while the roof hits the sky.
​Keep whining, keep crying, keep throwing your fit,
It’s the only thing you’re good at, the only thing that’s lit.
You’re a beacon of "don't," a symbol of "why,"
The reason that the good die young and the bad just multiply.
Harley Kidder, the name on the door,
The one that everybody ignores on the floor.
Yeah, you’re the next bullshitter in the family line,
Turning perfectly good water into sour wine.
​Get an education, learn how to speak,
Learn how to be strong instead of just weak.
But I doubt you’ve got the spine, I doubt you’ve got the grit,
You’re too busy swimming in your own little pit.
Satan’s daughter raised you well, didn't she now?
Taught you how to curtsy, taught you how to bow,
To the altar of the liar, to the shrine of the fake,
How many more lives are you planning to break?
​[Outro – Music slows down, becoming disjointed and eerie]
​Ask your mother, Harley.
She knows where the bodies are buried.
She knows the rot in the trunk of that tree.
She knows exactly who you’re turning out to be.
Like father, like daughter.
Just like a rotten Snapple.