What's been, is a shadow display,
that can curse or be exotic of play,
and wishes are often in the moon-shine,
and believing in rushes of the blind,
thinking a morning, can open eyes.

The dream of the incestualized,
a child once vividly opening presents,
And is that the wish of the memory,
terrible act of one of his parents?
Or the dying one-day blooming Xmas.
No-one knows what I'm on about here.

And the flares in his eyes were shining
like the stars above his bedroom ceiling.

And a broth to a sloth comes a modern,
and a finger snaps and there's no sudden,
Just looks at you coldly, and so off
and he won't mind a warm/cold coffin.