A Flying Sh*t In A Pig’s Parade

I’ll dance with you, wearing nothing but moonlight and popsicle sticks.

I’m the enemy they cloned for you,

A hybrid of two,

A collection of cunning, a pocket full of whistles.

Whisper to me, Henry.


I’ll fly the night’s kite with these eyes and pluck you out of you sorrow.

I can pick you out from a line of lion heads, but only just.


A well wishing man came to see you today,

I gave him your wife and rode them away.

Far away, into our nothing, past our luggage and quaint curiosities.


The next day a witch knocked on your head,

And I sent her a pocket knife, to dig at you with.

You cried like a child and I laughed as you sobbed,

I bade you farewell and kissed a lark the shape of a crescent moon that very night.


Next week I woke up in a place very strange,

The curtains, the pillows, the rugs were all chains.

I hated the place, so set it in ice

I think I need to reach for something, a balancing beam perhaps,

Something I keep next to the spider, sitting on top of your baby blue lampshade, dollface.



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