'Cos it’s the ones that you love,
that will hurt you the most.
Sometimes you wish they’d die
Because you can’t get cut by a ghost.

But that’s the voice of a coward
Like Ben Burnanke infront of congress,
Complexed wrongness
Leads to bong hits.

I’ve walked several times,
To Hell and back,
Old flame and fiery tendrils appeal
When there’s a storm on your back.

I’ll take the pill that made me ill
if there’s no other,
Like Coke products that are sold
to Somalian mothers,

So when the Sun sways westward
And night resurrects in the empty space.
I’ll walk again the stoney pass to the black gate,
And settle down in that cosy warm place.

One can feel like two,
In the same way two can feel like one.
The path’s cut deep,
So to hell, and the journey’s already begun.