I don't do it.

I don't do it.

Sheepish little grins lit upon the ceiling,
and I'm wondering what exactly thy God is revealing.
The games he tends to play mess around my head,
as little tiny men dance around my bed.

Some say these things are demons, oh how they're wrong.
They're nothing but shadowed images from this restless song,
the one that never ends and replays in my head,
the one that makes these men dance around my bed.

Oh, the torture that they give with horrid singing voices,
and the problems that they cause with their immature choices.
They've no idea the pain that they cause and the sleep that I lose,
for it's not these tiny things that have the choice to chose.

I think they're quite friendly, not meaning to be rude..
And, I can tell by the way they look that they don't want to dance around nude.
But, it's like they're lost in a world of torture and pain,
and it's like they're being suckered into becoming insane.

I believe thy God is revealing that they're nothing but a mess,
but there's nothing wrong with that, I still have a second guess.
And, I'm not sure what to say, I can hear their solid cries..
I don't do it; Oh, these little men are so good at lies.