There's a maniac in the box,
Creeping out in the silent dusk.
Slithering, withering, near a trunk.
Underneath the silent crockery of celestial dinners.
Oh and all you see is not the same.
Upon your podium, you are blind.
Under the carpet on your floor.
There are things, there are things you don't like.
Harp all you like, your ideas are vague.
Oh and all you see is not the same.
You're welcome here.
Thank you.
Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment