Supposedly a cursed poem. Read aloud, it invokes death, misfortune, and misery.

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His older sister vomited blood, his younger sister vomited fire,

And the cute Tomino vomited glass beads.

Tomino fell into Hell alone,

Hell is wrapped in darkness and even the flowers don’t bloom.

Is the person with the whip Tomino’s older sister,

The whipping is worrisome.

Hit, hit, without hitting,

Familiar Hell’s one road.

Would you lead him to the dark Hell,

To the sheep of gold, to the bush warbler (nightingale).

I wonder how much he put into the sac of skin

For the preparation of the journey to the infernal Hell.

Spring is coming even in the forest and the steam,

Even in the steam of the dark Hell.

The nightingale in the basket, the sheep in the wagon,

Tears in the eyes of cute Tomino.

Cry, nightingale, toward the raining forest

He shouts that he misses his little sister.

The crying echo reverberates throughout Hell,

The fox peony blooms.

Circling around Hell’s seven mountains and seven streams,

The lonely journey of cute Tomino.

If they’re in Hell bring them to me,

The needle of the graves.

I won’t pierce with the red needle,

In the milestones of little Tomino.

Elizabeth.

Boring and plain,

Prim and proper.

Sophisticated.

Average.

Ordinary.

An Elizabeth doesn't look like me,

She doesn't dye or shave her hair.

She does the Jesus thing.

Not me.

Elizabeth doesn't suit me.

Its visage is one of elegance and grace.

I can barely walk straight.

Elizabeth is for the neat ones, the normal ones.

Not me.