Cold metal, cut glass, a little piece of stone,
Unless all brought together, they are nothing, all alone.
But when the craftsman melds them, joins elements as one;
That's when the circle forms, but the work is still not done.
The doctors think they can treat me;
Give me chemicals, alter my brain.
They don't understand that I don't feel pleasure, only pain.
I've been told I killed sixteen, but I'm pretty sure there's more;
Little boy, little boy, come sit on my knee;
Little boy, little boy, what so troubles thee?
Was it the childhood filled with needles and nurses?
Or seeing your grandparents go by in their hearses?