``I paint pictures of you on the ceiling,
On the floor and the padded cell walls;
But I wish I could paint what I'm feeling,''
The man from his private hell drawls.
``I paint pictures of you on the ceiling,
On the floor and the padded cell walls;
But the doctors all tell me I'm healing,
And perhaps see the madness recoils.''
``I paint pictures of you on the ceiling
Or perhaps it's the grey of the sky?
But I'm sure padded walls are concealing
That your world is only a lie.''
``I paint pictures of you on the ceiling,
On the floor and the padded cell walls;
But the world seems so unappealing...''
So back into his shell he crawls.