Cists and Cumberbuns... Cumberbuttons Ben Norton
The depression, the despair… Those cloacal tendencies to avoid… Her hair.
I hate myself, I hate myself; I hate myself. I hate myself.
The distinction, the dismiss… Those irrelevant consistencies, Those voids… The mist.
That mist. Vestigial transparencies. That mist. Lucid. Free.
Freer than I…
That damned, damned mist.
So, we take a stroll, through the lake. We take a swim, through the park.
And we embrace the flames, as we ascend deeper.
And never, never have I felt more free.
Freer than a bird.
Freer than a bee.
Freer than Me…
The denouement, the duress… Our nefarious irascibilities… Our tree.
Cists and Cumberbuns... Cumberbuttons.
Fills its branches. (Fill its branches! Fill its branches!)
Cists and Cumberbuns... Cumberbuttons.
I hate myself, I hate myself; I hate myself. I hate myself.