Anything he calls me it must be true, Opinions are like ******* but I must be too

Nothing is everything and everything is wrapped up tight, right and everything is counterbalanced with unintentional natural born spite

This fog filled phantoms box I'm stowed away in
Pandora's dopplegangster the wicked we, the hidden brethren

So locked to my box no keys to set me free, I listen to all of beautifully damaging words he believes me to be

Opinions are like ******* but I must be one too, anything he calls me must be true