---

Its cold hand runs up my spine,

Grab my neck and turn me around,

I look paranoia in the in, my sweet captor.

A figment of my imagination.

These things must be a figment (They are, they are, they are, they are),

But the cold hands tell me otherwise

And they don't lie,

For I control the cold hands,

(It's not me) It's not me.

The cold hands cradle me...