My room is a haven for small plastic people,
Whom nobody else is so willing to buy.
See, this is the tower and that is the steeple
Of Plastic Cathedral. Who built it? Just I.
These seventeen points of articulate motion
Are more than enough to make men out of them.
I stand them in line when I'm struck with the notion,
And when I get weary I change them again.

It's a jungle out there, and although I'm no fighter,
My hands and my face have been bloodied and bruised.
I'm leaving that path for the way of the spider.
I'll live in my basement, make all my own rules.
Tell me quickly, and clearly, why do you look worried?
You think I'm abandoning reality?
A quick look around you should more than inform you,
Reality got up and walked out on me.