Whispering night fades to sable dull morning
Verda in black whilst her mother is mourning
cabaret clown-show dances in deep
Verda is down in the valleys of sleep

Verda takes pills in a sinister tomb
smiles wicked smiles and her eyes turn to moons
mummy is rocking away by her side
and pulls out her teeth to a sweet lullaby

Girl-child Verda, who loves cuts and bruises
with a stitched-up mind which she frequently loses
and a mother who stops her from having her play
other children are pink but her Verda is grey

Delicate lace is lined in her coffin
Verda in black whilst her body is rotting
chemical residue flows in her veins
Verda's no child and her mother's insane

With margerain gentle,
  The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
  Is of your maidenhead.
Plainly I cannot glose;
  Ye be, as I divine,
The pretty primrose,
  The goodly columbine.

Benign, courteous, and meek,
  With wordes well devised;
In you, who list to seek,
  Be virtues well comprised.
With margerain gentle,
  The flower of goodlihead,
Embroidered the mantle
  Is of your maidenhead.

the world is a machine built of scorpions and wolves, praying for sleep and
soft lullabies. the wheels and knobs turn endlessly, recklessly howling at the
stars for it's desirable solace, like ghosts stuck on earth preying on others for
revenge for being sentient puppets tangled in the strings, thrashing in their
thoughts, stuck in a everlasting cycle carrying around burdens like a courier
through dense forests and vast wastelands, burning bridges and bibles and
throwing gasoline upon the architectures built up and setting them on fire
but i feel hands of fear at my ankles, pulling me into the restless ocean
with a pulsating ache, wolves howl from the insides of my barren stomach
and making them be quiet is difficult, if duct tape worked, it would help
these knives for fingers cut through anything, but it can't cut through you

- kra