Wrapped in a sheath of faux affection,
he finds his way out of the neglection,
Wrapped in a web of depleting hope,
That career he pursues,
That hope for fame, it's nothing new.

Pulled that string back, hit the center,
He hit that spot, the world he entered,
He found that fame, that fame he sought,
He hid that pain, that pain he thought,
And his passion was nothing bought.

Play the chord, hit the snare,
If he had it, he didn't care,
That life he led, it was his to lead,
That life that bled, it was his to bleed,
But Cobain's dead, so there's no need.

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