From the recording 2
She woke dream-drunk and and the figure slowly coalesced through the mist of 3 am. At the foot of the 10 year old's bed, rusty and hungry.
I know you don't believe me
But the thoughts they never leave me
Push them down down down
To the bottom of my sea
(An incubus in grease paint)
And there they lay until this very day
Yes they've held their breath
But now their violet eyes
Slowly break the surface
Why did I try, why did I try
To watch that movie again?
Why did I think that I was immune
A little more now than then?
Cause now their rusted fingernails
Are scratching at my door
The robot clowns are coming soon
To sip lemonade in the afternoon
But their faces change at the cusp of night
To maniacal smiles and a mechanical bite.
Just because you don't perceive it
Doesn't mean that it's not really happening
It's a painful thing when your antenna's
High above the clouds
Turn out the light, turn off the phone
Turn off my mind , leave me alone
But now the robot clowns are scratching
At my bedroom door.
You see, what you have Mr. Larrabee is
A garden variety psychosis
It can be treated with some therapy
And perhaps some prescription medication.
Everyone's got something.