I raise a fearsome fuss and I raise a horrid holler.
My head's a-jerkin', I'm mumblin', and I live in filthy squalor.
They tell me that I'm crazy—ply me with opiates.
My doc said, "You're wired, son, we might have to sedate."
Sunk my teeth into his right hand and I chewed.
He screamed, "There ain't no cure but the rubber-lined room!"

So then the medics and cops hold me,
Use a Taser gun to stun me.
Then they throw me in a car, arms strapped across my tummy.
Well I give a little smirk as they tell me I'm sick.
Loud, my rants in the car cause me to have jerking tics.
Next thing I know, flyin' through the air I zoom.
They threw me, secured, into the rubber-lined room.

After two full weeks of very-heavy-dose sedation,
They taken up my problem and reviewed medication.
When doc comes in the room, I head-butt his throat.
He'd like to yell, but his vocal chords won't emote.
Gun time: a stunner; they ply me with more juice.
It seems there ain't no cure but the rubber-lined room.