I beg not to be labelled

I beg not to be labelled 

I beg not to be taught this  

Be labelled and presented as a form 

Of a form, in a form 

I  beg not  to be taught this  

Essence, drained of blood and of life 

Of a form, in a form
On the butcher's table, drunk by the critics  

Essence, drained of blood and of life

Drunk by the critics, without feel
On the butchers table, drunk by the critics
Boxed and presented in genre of pigeon holes 

Drunk by the critics, without feel
I beg not to be labelled 

Boxed and presented in genre of pigeon holes
And claim to know where my thoughts lie 

I beg not to be labelled, 
Not to be read, by those without soul  

And claim to know where my thoughts lie
They will taint my handy work  

Not to be read, by those without soul

Emotions that burst out in knowing, feeling 

They will taint my handy work
So I beg not to be labelled, by the critics

Emotions that burst out in knowing, feeling

A connection no man can explain 

So I beg not to be labelled, by the critics
No, not even I can,  be allowed to, label

A connection no man can explain 

Presume to know your interpretation

No, not even I can, be allowed to, label  
This is my gift to your kind 

Presume to know your interpretation
But to be felt and shared, loved  

This is my gift to your kind
To understand with no need on emphasis 

But to be felt and shared 

So I beg not to be labelled  

To understand with no need on emphasis 

Who spats out false prophecy 


So I beg not to be labelled 

Of knowing, by the soulless 
Who spats out false prophecy
I beg not to be labelled