Break my head on a window sill.
Glass shatters, all is still.
Got to get up,
got to kill,
the little man
that talks, but isn't real
Carpet covered by a lake of red.
Blood gushes, pain in head.
Hope to quiet,
hope to shred,
the little man
that talks, but isn't real
Shouting with a voice that trails.
He is desperate, no avail.
The reaper is here,
here to jail,
the little man
that talks, but isn't real