He’s based, I’m sure, in some big house
Where Gods compose the scripts
Deciding who’s man. Who is mouse
And whose mind’s going to flip.
He’s like a label round my neck
That only I see there.
But which, at paranoia’s beck
Glows red while people stare.
Should I get chatting with a girl
He sneaks up from behind
And lets her - and the listening world
Know just what’s on my mind.
When chances in my life arise
Where confidence succeeds,
He mirrors me with fearful eyes
And paints a man in need.
One day I tried to catch him slack
And punch him till he’d gone.
The problem is, he hit me back
So now the Big Fight’s on.