In the land of single freaks, that all live inside my head, we dance around each night and sing, the songs that we still dread. Let happiness find us, alone in our embrace, the world can't hold a candle, to the maddness that we'd bring. He's gentle in his words, and cruel with his thoughts, to know he knows and knows I know and still I'm in this box. Can't hear you talking, my mouth's so full of sand. Can't listen to the yardbirds, they're falling down again. Simple rhymes for simple folk, that's what my father always said. Oh wait, he never talked to me, except to say "You're dead".
Don't dissappoint the maker, lest he become the breaker, for in his haste, to measure waste, the ones who complain are apt to disdain, and fall into disrepair. Don't dissapoint the maker, lest he become your father, unforgiving and cruel, screams you are a fool, as he pushes you away once again.
I'm not sure what I'm writing, if truth is plain to see, qualifies as such, or is just a mumbled rush, of words without meaning, their feelings ignored, tumbled to the floor, I'm just throwing out, the things i can say, in hopes you can see, the words I won't.