Mathilda - Nada Surf

They used to call me Mathilda

My mama kept my hair long

I was more pretty than handsome

And I was not very strong

My voice was kinda high

Not a typical guy

They used to call me Mathilda

I was never sure why

I felt bad about it

But I didn’t get mad

I got sad about it

But I was all that I had

Where’s this order coming from?

Do you hear it like a drum

From back in time?

Do you feel like who you are?

Are you driven from afar?

Along for the ride

There’s a manner in your town

There’s no way to turn it 'round

Why even try?

Just kids, we have our tests

Look at your nails, is your palm out?

If you hold your hands

Unlike a man, it’s not allowed

We start out young

It’s too much fun to laugh out loud

We think we’re free

But we don’t see, our heads are bowed

Our heads are bowed

I read somewhere that women will

Worry most 'bout being killed

When with a new guy

Men on dates fear ridicule

It’s the sting they knew at school

And it still applies

Sometimes nothing is better

Than anything made of words and letters

And looks and gestures, blank is clean

Blank is a peaceful, empty scene

In your private self

You make some room and have some space

You wake your loves up one by one

And make them safe

And make them safe

Who knows how many in a group

Feel the odd one out

Who the joke’s about?

That feeling, that loneliness

Hangs over like a curse

Over like a thirst

Where’s this order coming from?

Do you hear it like a drum

From back in time?

Though it’s all around, I still wonder

Why we can’t move on, and we still bear arms

And we still make fun out of anyone

Picture a worksite bar of clockout drinking

And then go inside, do you feel that vibe?

Something makes me think someone wants to fight

There’s a drive to quell what we hate in ourselves

If it’s in the Bible, then you know it’s old

And if it’s in nature, then it’s been foretold

That a slice of our numbers will feel this way

It’s not somethin' we discuss between guys who are straight

And then I looked up, «Was Fred Phelps gay?»

But I found no answer, so then who’s to say?

But only self-hatred could explain his rage

There’s a special Hell that we build for ourselves

And it’s handed down in homes and playgrounds