There are things that tickle my nose

And wake me from my sleep,

Brush sticky hair from my haunted eyes.

"It was nothing but a dream."

If the devil speaks through me,

It's because I'm precious

And my mind is a motel

For all the lost souls with a purpose.

There are moments,

When my thoughts are alienated;

When my mind splits in two, three, and four parts—

And earth becomes my little place of hell.