I prefer violins over violence.
What more can I say?
I don’t need vini vidi vici
to get where I’m heading.

But you? You’ll never understand.

You can yell at me and cuss me out
But you’re not getting what want
If that’s the way you do it.

Why should anyone be afraid of a bully like you?
You belittle, you degrade, you step up on that stage
And paint yourself to be the paragon of perfection.
But you know what? Knowing what I do and seeing what I’ve seen,
Your mask doesn’t impress me.

The shrivelled skin you hide behind your mirrored mask
Those imperfections you can’t let others see
Know that they show around the eyes.
Little peaks every now and again appear
In the holes of your disguise.

The one part you can’t cover
Because then you’d be blind in your lie
Well, they’re what give you away.
And the scars that you won’t show?
I know they’re there. They have to be there.

And (laughs) it’s funny.
Simply because you don’t reveal your scars, your deformities, your eccentricities,
I can picture them however I please.
Though they may be the minor remnants of an insignificant burn,
I imagine you became trapped in an inferno you originated simply because you wanted to light a fire under someone’s ass.

See, those scars? Your imperfections?
I wouldn’t mind them if they weren’t slathered in slander and misdirect.
We’re only human, and hey, I have my own.
But I accept mine so I can accept those of others.

Honey wins more flies than vinegar. But no matter how much you smother
Your acetic personality in artificially sweet molasses,
I’ll never do what you want.

Yes, there are some that will. But they’re playing your game
To take advantage of you.
Like minds flock alike.
The geese will come.
And, guess what?

Molasses and feathers don’t go well together, as history has shown.

Your artificial friends, they’re all playing the Art of War.
With them, there will only ever be victors and victims.

But you did this to yourself.
You put on your mask, you put on your armor, you hid behind your barrage of insults just to protect the shriveled man you know yourself to be.

What kind of life is that?
I’ll keep listening to Beethoven and his violins.
While you mimic Bonaparte and his violence.

When you get banned to your own private Elba,
I’ll write to you out of the kindness of my heart.
I’ll send you this message, simply written:

I prefer violins over violence.
What more can I say?
I didn’t need vini vidi vici
to get where I was heading.