I was spending my days with my demons, yeah   They had taken up inside of my heart   They were trying to keep me entertained   They were tearing me apart      Well my memory, she was packing, yeah   And I knew that she would never come back   She handed me a letter and   Then she vanished in the black   And the letter said:       Things are what you make of them   Things are what you make of them, baby   And you know what I mean   Yeah, you know what I mean      Well I met up with my common sense   And I knew her by the rose in her hair   She said: Son, if you don't make a noise   God will never know you're there      So I purchased me a ticket, yeah   For a meeting with Jesus Christ   He shook my hand and offered me   Just this thimble of advice   He was telling me:       Things are what you make of them . . .