Granddaughter of a coffin maker
And his their hands were hardened on the stones
Small boxes for people and name tags
Drinking bubbles by myself
It's not sad.
It's delicious
Tiny perfect circles
Disappear inside the glass
It's not sad
It's euphoric
No it's not
I found my calling at the bottom of a well
Thank god for the chasm that amplified the echo
Of what I didn't want
To look inside the cracks
That split apart the thick walls
Cold and wet and lonely
To see the slivers of light
I'm afraid
I have fears
I have rolled the universe into my ears
So as not to hear the voices
Reasoning each to each
Her bum isn't a peach
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