Vacume humming, T.
V.
playing.
Do you want the victuals in the parlor?
When there's a boast of riches in the harbor.
Eyes of blue, hair bottled.
It was suppose to be tea and petits fours.
With an ice cream or a kneck throttle.
Alice doesn't live here anymore.
Ziptape, styrofoam, Rovana.
Tell me what you're looking for.
Close the drapes on your nirvana.
Alice doesn't live here anymore.
You don't believe in speaking grave side.
And where you live is where you gonna die.
As you bid adieu to a violent year.
Alice, where are you going, Dear?
Why don't you roll on over here?