Take a ride on my hospital bed.
Trace the footprints of the living dead.
Come walk with me in my world for a while,
where the color white is the only thing in style.

On each sunrise I place my reliance.
I breathe through a miracle of science.
The smell of the ocean rolls through my window,
and the smell of death stains this very pillow.

A flower wilts while a priest is still kneeling.
Some machine tells me exactly how I’m feeling.
My head lies on the wrong side of fate.
While one hand knocks on Saint Peter’s Gate

I am a prisoner in society.
And I’m doing time for my infirmity.
The hands of time wash me away in a flood.
I’ve grown quite accustomed to the taste of my own blood.