There is no metaphor for the words that I speak

No chapel for my sins, no castle for this King

I am Mr. Benzodrine

Been having better dreams

The world is pretty dark

Though things are better than they seem

I know you want to find me

But I've put myself behind me

There is no better chord for the words that I preach

Reciting all my words cause' I am sick at poetry 

Mess of a kind

Not like the others

Respect to the world

Respect to your mothers

Place your hand in mine

Both my sisters and my brothers

Keep it if you can

Keeping shining on, you lovers