Puppetry

Everytime I lose myself
And cracked ceilings tear down my walls
I listen to words
And the holes behind them
and think "I am not alone,"
How dilapidated - - a lonely hand in the wind
With it's windowed shutters closing in
the rays of madness
and we all come out, infected cows
Trippy, trippy
the noses drippy
of the brewing hot cold,
Tattoed with their credos
we're infected
Infected
Too out of balance with the stars
That always seem to disappear
and come back again,
stuck in these shadows
this is Massochism,
and we're a self-serving sphere of Sadism
Tricky tricky,
This business of character