He's got a storm cloud over his head, says he likes how it lingers
He only listens to punk rock bands with a dead lead singer
He just killed the fifth of some dirt-cheap gin, says he's not much of a drinker
But I'm not pointing fingers
'Cause I'm a compulsive manic kinda sad boy dead beat fixer
And he's an undead ringer

So misunderstood, I wanna get inside his head
Something 'bout a guy who's only hanging by a thread

He's only half alive, with smokey puppy eyes
He swears to God his heart is as black as his coffee
So broken, but he's sweet, holds me tighter than his jeans
He's my, he's my American zombie

He's my
He's my
He's my American zombie

He's got his Converse tied all wrong and a chip on his shoulder
I ask him why he gets so damn high, he says I might understand when I'm older

God, he looks so lonely, I should let him in my bed
Something 'bout a guy who's only hanging by a thread

He's only half alive, with smokey puppy eyes
He swears to God his heart is as black as his coffee
So broken, but he's sweet, holds me tighter than his jeans
He's my, he's my American zombie
It's tragic, but he's cool, so pretty that it's cruel
And he can't really seem to keep his cold hands off me
Got poison on his breath, but he's trying his best
He's my, he's my American zombie

He's my
He's my
He's my American zombie
He's my
He's my
He's my American zombie