Dolls and shells, dolls and shells. 

Three sheets to the wind, and swollowed by fortunes twisted spells. 

An empty hand for a lifeless eye glimmer lost and wasted and spent on hallowed stifled ties. 

I preach to the converting with a tounge less disconcerting 

and a name pulled forth from ashes scattered when the fruits of our labour hardly mattered. 

The poor obessions of solanka. 

Crash meets head in a blur of demons lost and fired fed 

betting these last inches of rope on a new machine left for dead. 

Wasting years praying for solanka an uncharted mind embracing spirits of another kind