To all you paranoid schizophrenic eclectics out there;
the Cranklatches are real
hiding 'neath your stairs 

dwelling under your sorry beds
creeping while you're sleeping
stealing your distorted heads 

who am I to obtain self control 
wish for just some clarity 
for thoughts non-hazy and whole 

It's not the drugs I think 
nor the ****** fluids in my 
ex-friends sink 

It's not the smell of decaying 
trust 
nor the world outside my wall
that fall, it must

It's the Cranklatches, yes the Cranklatches
spreading lies and hovering like flies 
polluting my ideas with fascist intentions

poisoning my days
with perverse hallucinations 

But I know of
yes I have seen

Their plots, their plans
their visions of a bloated and resolute future

watch out
they inhale your whispers

even here, are they with us?