Poor little Alice fell down a hole
Bumped her head and bruised her soul.
Her soul, her soul is gone forever
What will it take to mentally mend her?
Drugs, alcohol, reassure or trust?
All of these factors are defining her looks
Poor little Alice what shall she do?
An axe, a cleaver, to the head will do.
An axe to the head!
Gushing from her skull till the ground turns read
On cold concrete, poor little Alice lay lifeless with slits in her wrist,
The soul gushes out of her body, with a note clasped in her fist.
“We’re all mad here” read the note.
The white rabbit read it, with a lump in his throat.
If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does
Lewis Carroll
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