Mr. Finch collects physicians, he calls them all his own
But each of them just looks at him and tells him to go home
Then panic closes in
I hope that whiney shit gets his
He might be sick, but it isn't catching
Though he's often left alone
In waiting rooms to wonder why his hands are always cold
He comes when he remembers why he's scared
When the sullen gods of dirty things
Are calling out and holding him
Back from behind things he can't recall, 
At least not anymore
He hopes to write a book of them some day
He can't believe how quickly things pile up
He'd wish to live forever if he had the chance to wish
He always forgets the good things that he's got
He passed as an actor playing a spineless, flinching twit
Well composed and polite, 
He thought he'd be alright
If he kept dancing here
With his thumbs in his ears
But there was something catching up to him
And it had claws
And I know exactly what he thinks it was