And so lay the little lambs
Resting the snowy white heads against the carpet of green
Ready to render their necks to the sycthe
The morning dew tainted with a spray of blood

And so The Fool with his head stood triumphant
Until the noose slid neatly around his throat
And bottom of the world dropped out

Ah, but Death's cadence sang so sweetly
If it weren't for the haggard blow of life's call
We could've drifted so easily asleep under the yew tree

Not ready are we to fold
A house of cards armed only with spades
The Red Queen burnt black
Cackling from the ashes

There is no more of this disillusionment
The thickness merely spreads over us all
Mice drowning in the buttermilk

We cannot possibly fathom our own web-like design
To even ponder it is absurd
For who would truly want to live knowing how it all ends?