Pounding away in the back of my head

Until I've almost lost myself

And those red and black patterns

In which nothing happens

Have made me sleep



A beautiful voice is a nail

Being pulled out of wood

Carry on little hammer

You were always my favourite toy



When the world's dead to me

In my soft ? ? ? fortunate cushion of pins(? )

Is a soldier

Slicing thin(? ) through(? ) thin(? )

The unfortunate truth sneaking in