I touch with my fingers...
the wings of the butterfly.
I'm getting funny feeling,
That someone dies.

I've got some broken bones,
Some blood on my shirt
And I'm hearing voices
in the deferent tones.

I've got four bullets,
Gun powder on my fingers
I'm not satisfied,
life's getting sicker.

I hear the horror
behind your shoulder,
Walking easily
Taking liefs.

No more whisper
In your closet,
Horror's living
In your eyes.