She crawled into a little door, her hot tears cast an ocean
Pinnafore and teacakes red as blood and torn
She's alone inside her head, in little orange bottles with gin
And he's the squiggle of lines clambering for attention
A bright cacophony of dreams and warped fixation
Sometimes chained and desolate, sometimes rambling with a grin
It's always him, and he can be quite charming
One's own mind can be a nightmare,
Madness always makes a precious friend