Everything but the Kitchen Knife

The screws are tightening round my skull

In the same place where all the voices come from

Though this is no accident, no health misfortune

By now, yes, I've begged for it, begged for it to come

You call yourself a killer, well then finish the job

You call yourself a thrill, but the ones from me are all you've got

This terra is not my pill, when all kind monsters are forgot

As the real terror slaps on Maybelline, straps on a guitar

Somewhere in Xayide's lair lies my memories

Packed like spheres of glass in a gumball machine

Someday I'll return to sepia and monochrome

As another Dorothy clicks her heels…

(Going anyplace but home)