Dolls and shells, dolls and shells
Three sheets to the wind, and swollowed by fortunes twisted spells
An empty hand for a lifeless eye glimmer lost and wasted and spent on hallowed stifled ties
I preach to the converting with a tounge less disconcerting
and a name pulled forth from ashes scattered when the fruits of our labour hardly mattered
The poor obessions of solanka
Crash meets head in a blur of demons lost and fired fed
betting these last inches of rope on a new machine left for dead
Wasting years praying for solanka an uncharted mind embracing spirits of another kind