Mr. Disgrace couldn’t get up and gonHe was tied to his bed with fear of unknownnHating his ownnnHis pockets are filled with the scraps of a poemnHe’d written to her but she’ll never knownHe’d ever written a poemnnMr. Disgrace has a problem with partsnFitting them in and reading the chartsnIn a world made of partsnnHe feels he can see in the minds and the heartsnIf only the new where everything startsnIn a world made of too many partsnnIf only they knewnOne isn’t two when you’re emptynBlinded by words trampled by herds ‘cause he’s emptynnMr. Disgrace would you get up and gonYou’re tied to your bed with the fear of unknownnThe fear that you only could know n