Roses are Red

Violets are Blue

I'm drunk in my Bed

And I threw up my Stew

Pretty Pretty Robin

Under leaves so green

That flies in the night,

The Invisible worm

Seeks your cradle narrow

A happy blossom

Of crimson joy

Sees you swift as arrow

In the howling storm.

O Rose, thou art sick.

Pretty Pretty Robin

Hears you sobbing sobbing

Near my bosom.

Merry Merry Sparrow

Has found out thy bed

Under leaves so green

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

Your tiny hands they tell me so much

And you're so ridiculously beautiful,

That I sometimes cry with joy under my bald skull.

And the tears drop on the ground

Making dreams grow like dandelions,

Yellow dreams of joy piercing the concrete filth of life.

THESE DANDELIONS ARE ALL YOURS.

Actually, it's just an everyday nightmare. The same pile of dogshit, the same teaspoon. And do you know what's frightening ? What's scary ? It's a nightmare which does not scare me anymore. I just live in it now, a horrible tale of habits. Waking-up, jerking-off, drinking up, throwing-up, feeling down, sleeping it off. And the days run by with no hope for even a tiny bit of change. There was hope once, but my habits - of this fucking nightmare of a life - sent hope astray. Now it's just me talking to myself,  lying on a bed and counting cracks on the ceilling instead of stars in the sky.  The only unusual thing that could pull me out of this misery is death. But she's a lady of habits as well, and usually she knocks on your door when you least want her to. Death is a cunt, and so is life.