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Description
you are the queen of the red bucket,
are you not?
little eye keeper.
blind as you are to the flight,
you still must know that you are a mere statistic.
but you make a big number of it,
do you not, my dear?
hush, for i hear them run for you.
past the child and the young spirit,
past the bloodied and shining goblet,
only to your bedside to trill a false alarm.
and there is a shriveled, smoked out child
under your bed,
is there not?
lazy little demon of white coat.
all the bodies they ignore for you,
all the acid inhaled willingly -
by your side they stand to attention,
their brains not set to detect any foul stench,
much less that which wafts from beneath a queen.
o queen of red bucket and wet tissue,
pray tell,
how do you wash the stains from your bedsheets?
for i have tried many a time
on the discoloured patches of my skin
to wash away your burdens -
but neither chemical nor fire can relieve me
of the poisonous pollen embedded in my surface.
is it this that you so desperately covet?
a scalpel's point so precise that it could plunge at any second,
and only does so if you will it?
o, but queen, i do warn:
the thief in the madhouse has far greater power.
does she not, your majesty?
does she not?

Description
you are the queen of the red bucket,
are you not?
little eye keeper.
blind as you are to the flight,
you still must know that you are a mere statistic.
but you make a big number of it,
do you not, my dear?
hush, for i hear them run for you.
past the child and the young spirit,
past the bloodied and shining goblet,
only to your bedside to trill a false alarm.
and there is a shriveled, smoked out child
under your bed,
is there not?
lazy little demon of white coat.
all the bodies they ignore for you,
all the acid inhaled willingly -
by your side they stand to attention,
their brains not set to detect any foul stench,
much less that which wafts from beneath a queen.
o queen of red bucket and wet tissue,
pray tell,
how do you wash the stains from your bedsheets?
for i have tried many a time
on the discoloured patches of my skin
to wash away your burdens -
but neither chemical nor fire can relieve me
of the poisonous pollen embedded in my surface.
is it this that you so desperately covet?
a scalpel's point so precise that it could plunge at any second,
and only does so if you will it?
o, but queen, i do warn:
the thief in the madhouse has far greater power.
does she not, your majesty?
does she not?