Locked up in conformity No doors to this box Just bars from the floor to the top And the ceilings got no room to breath Air doesn't come with freedom Mother Teresa's stuck in her frame No Room to move She says she don't need 'em She's a roman missionary She's found a way to give charity Yet she doesn't free me from these shackels I 'm baffled by the irony Protest of the dead I am the living Poor for years and I'm still daring Talking out on what others might find scary From Loreto Abbey to a missionary I've learned to be forgiving But it's that character of naive That keeps me locked up in this sun set painting Conform the deformed She is the saint of the living On the forfront she was born The painting's dry on the ceiling Oh the Republic of Macedonia Mom and dad you know I'm talkin' to ya' Calling you out on that coat of arms Hand written and drawn Ya' wish to conquer me disarmed Like the slavic invaders did back in the dawn Before I had a god to call my arms You access powers of Axis Powers Where can I go to get a blood free dollar? And what might Mother Teresa say? Lock me up inside this painting Protest of the dead I am the living Moving from the Loreto Abbey to amissionary I've learned to be forgiving And I am a visionary Conform the deformed She is the saint of the living On the forfront she was born The painting's dry on the ceiling Conform the deformed She is the saint of the living On the forfront she was born The painting's dry on the ceiling