Take her to the room, Find out what's 

wrong,

But there's nothing wrong with her. 

It's the reel, of only one venture,

Taking me back to a stainless closure,

Pull apart the little girl strapped on 

that

X-ray,

Pull apart the little churl, so she can't

Get away,

Epic trouble, In slumberland,

Forgot,

The Dreams that I had,

Because,

Of the trouble in my hand,

Septic colons spur the lift of the man.

We write, with a doubt in our hand. 

Take her to the room, find out what's 

Wrong,

There's nothing wrong with

Her,

Filthy sand is all I had, With

dreams of trouble, All I had

Was

One Woman.