There is something wrong with us,
a problem with the child inside.

Yes, the curious one--amputated
before it could flesh out its joy
and be heard beyond miles.

Yes, I know of it,
Exiled.
Now you cannot ever get relief or full expression.

And today,
a rotten core, it stinks of foul play.

You are a twig that’s weak and grey,
you are a twig that’s weak and grey.

Mayday, mayday.

There is a problem with this one’s file play,
they are all mixed up in dangerous ways.
The cause of a tenet early on it seems,
preventing a guise no con down deep.

Mayday, mayday.

They’ll say Here is a twig that’s meek and plays,
Thinking beauty, feeling pain.
Stop it befor—

You clench that tree's bark,
Cough in from your gut's rot.

Suddenly the curious one you find,
wind leaving your gaping mouth in worlds.
Your Voice reverberates the land,
causes a continental crack.

A threshold gone infold,
amputated, you yell LARK.

Are heard by One from within the deep Dark,
Are heard beyond the Nile and Mountains,
Are heard by One not of this world but entwined.

A split second is all it took,
back to the infold you were consumed.

But guess what, my dear,
He was so delighted he took your shoes and with them brushed his hair.

And guess what, my dear,
You can never go back.
For How-de-do!
You exchanged eternal numbers too.

My dear, there is nothing wrong with us.
Within the infold you're clenched,
neck held by kaos arms mold in smog.

But your address is somewhere else,
Right there within the deep dark,
Right here Within the deep deep dark.