There are fleas in your head getting wasted,
Infecting, infesting, elated.
They corrupt, they defile your sad disposition.
There are scenes in your head getting painted,
A backwash from the shit you created,
Don't you know you're the source of your own inhibition?

You can cite it, fight it, hear the things that you wanna hear,
But you're benighted by your thoughts.
You can plant it, decant it, you know the things that you wanna know,
But you're frantic and withdrawn.

There's a nest in your head where the ants play,
There's a welcome mat on the railway,
There's an invitation and you're uninvited.
A size 10 impaled through a hurdle,
These blockades are seemingly immortal,
A little brain that's full to the gills with surprises.

There's a flame you can use to stop the bleeding,
There's a congregation swarming at the gallows walls.
And time will anesthetise these feelings,
There's a rope for every time you drop the ball.

There are holes in your head expanding 'cause your brain cells are in decline.
And this mental deficiency was always part of your design.
There's a difference between the person that you are and who you need to be.
There must be something inside of you that can be seen but you just cannot see.

And the holes in your face are ebbing like a burning candle over time.
And the snakes are convoluting 'round the ladders you need to climb.
There's a glue in your fingertips for all the pieces you cannot fix.
You were walking in the wrong direction after rolling a double six.