Sack Santa on my broomstick (hahahahaha!), the mag's eye

My banana boat, kapsized, from the shroom capsized (Oh!)

Heavin' magpie out the slag mine

Underground drip stalagmite

Shined by trooper mag lights (Hey)

I feel better and look sicker

Same story but the book bigger

Grind the tree like a woodchipper

My era Philly guts, and block cyphers

Gas bubble, the sock liner

Tongue coded in blot viler

Roll the L, let the witch pyre

Smoke circles, like a stripped tire

Open ladders on stratus clouds; I'm a bit higher

Rotisserie of pig; spitfire

Janitor swift with tinnitus; a sick writer

They don't think like me

Roxy got me, scratchin' off my skin like V (Roxy got me, scratchin' off my skin like V, ohh)

This gore cinema, from the sticks out of a wizard hut

From Catskill Park to Ithica

I'm bathed Norwich in blood

Germantown, blow a windom dust

Orange County, to Binghamton (Yo!)

You duck slither and state cops

It's Hamlet Lake locks

Further up north with pilgrimage for the great blocks (Yeah)

And squeeze bottle, the rain drops

Liquid windows left pseudo-hippies brainwashed

He lived by a car and zoned his head off about the forces of evil, they're out to get him, he said, that he said, the kinda thing that happens to people's minds sometimes, or when the police started checking, they found three bodies

- We administer mild electric shock, stimulants, and this little room down here, something that-I'll show ya: it has one red wall and a light switch, you can choose to turn the light on or off, or either face the red wall or turn his back to it, and we had to put him under sedation, since then he has been a complete melancholic

- If he's faking, could he possibly get away with it?

- Please, be aware that conjectures about illness and the human mind are the province of the psychiatrist