Shyly they laugh and dance out the door.
They're children, all children, without any care.
Their clothes, all with holes, in complete disrepair.
They're children, all children, without any care.
Tables and chairs are painted with flair,
But the legs are all broken, and the walls all have holes, but the children all play without any care
How can they grow? When they all stare, at our cameras and movies and think in despair
'I am not smart, I am not fair, my life is my life, I cannot better my fare."
So they play, as children, without any care.

Molly is not my friend.
Stole my lover,
Never to come back again,
Do I embrace your body? these wounds to mend?
For my soul, for worse, is left arend

If only Molly were my friend,
She left me high and dry again.
On lonely nights,
To great heights,
Her choice, her life, my hole, mine, to contend.

I wish Molly never existed,
Never be apart, our love never blistered.
My only wish, I could have fixed it,
But I don't believe you,
You don't believe me,
Because I believe broken is better than twisted.

No, Molly is not my friend.

Molly, at last I bid you adieu,
You sounded so pretty, until she met you.
Your tongue lashed out and tickled her ear,
Her hands play with your Mercury, it's luminescent sheer,
No thought of what she leaves behind, she is who she chooses to do.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We take the tasteless by the armful.
With greedy hands that grasp,
we take the shapeless mass.
Just the dust and just the mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
Just loved by arms that enfold.
A warm embrace,
from a lovely face.
Eventually to dust and then to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We shrink before we grow bold.
Grow strong in time,
just to diminish in size.
Just to dust and just to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
A lovely day for life on the world.
On a bountiful globe,
We develop and grow.
Just to turn to dust, and then to mold.

Dust to dust and mold to mold,
We heal as just as we return to our home.
Lie down in our bed,
As we begin mend.
Just to dust and just to mold.

Her wound bleeds fresh when she breathes too deep.
Her heart is hers to keep or let seep
Beneath the earth... Beneath the grave...
beneath the trees... there it lays!

Cool to the touch, and clutch by a corpse.
Her heart: eternally frozen in quartz.

At danu's spring, he licked his wings, and prepped his mind to soar,
but foresworn maid, with lowly heart he bade, goodye forevermore.
What wrath had she? She turned her cheek. No bitterness to behold.
He sought only luxury, she cared only for her sheep - thus love, it's cards did fold.

Within this abattoir we sat, sank,
dreamed, drank in what little sun we could.
Eight hours we had, eight hours a week,
when our weak, frail, tender bodies could sip,
would reach, and slip, on the ***** muddy mounds we made,
to raise ourselves above the common stage.

To see it lift its head each day,
that lone rose on the hill.
we look to where the breeze escapes,
there the rose its pedals drapes.
Through the bars our cell it scrapes,
its roots, the ground to till...

For years we sought we saw,
we reach, we grasp, we claw
The delicate rose at least to hold,
our hope for beauty in this hole.
The only beauty sitting bold,
in front of this mob of beasts.

At last he grasped and pulled it close,
(that fiend, we curse his name),
he tore it from its home, its post,
to have the beauty he killed the rose,
the one and only hope disposed,
and now no hope we claim.