I built myself up then I fell right off,
And I did with the characteristic passion of a Karamazov.

I don’t know where I get these ideas, but they fill up the room.
They must be born of a mutilated peasant womb.

They stampede and conquer my days.  At night they melt down my walls.
I don’t dare to leave, because I know they’re apt to ambush the halls.

They  may come quiet, but they build to thunder.
They spike their wagon wheels and throw me right under.

There I lay trapped and beaten.  A born winner, dead and defeated.
I never stood a chance against the poisonous egg and *****.

The things I want to want I never do desire.
I burn to be the light, but only ever play with fire

This time I flew  too close.  A moth-brain in my head,
I simply took a nap, and that killed my father dead.

Am I guilty if I wanted him to die?
Am I guilty if I sleep well tonight?
Am I guilty for an averted eye?
Am I guilty though I never told a lie?

Am I guilty if I didn’t pull the trigger?
What God could ever die for this sinner?