I collect change. Some people call me deranged. I suppose I am strange. I pass through trains and leave stains.
And various other things of the sort. Everyone has a home. Mine's not a house, It's a cave made of stone.
Where I live alone, With the change I've come to know.
Some change dies quick. Some change dies slow. Some change is hard to catch. Some change needs to get their throat scratched hard. (All of them die, though.)
I collect change. But lately I've been in a rage. Collecting them violently, So they don't wanna play.
I'm not strange.
I just can't wait to dismember your friends and ship them in crates, Hang each of their parts from the ceiling of your place, And then blow my brains out all over your face, For the sake of making sure you know what type of person a traumatic experience creates.