You don’t know,
who we are,
broken pieces and bloody shards,
collected neatly in our jars.
We cross this land,
maybe if we’d met,
some other time,
you would be fine.
Too late, too late,
our deed is done,
off we go,
off we run.
The queen is waiting,
for her fill of hearts,
best served freshly cut,
with blood still warm.
Off with their heads!
We’re on a roll,
with heartbreakers,
things take a toll.
Alice, oh Alice,
give me your hand,
and take me back to,
Wonderland,
where I will leave,
the fates I’ve met,
for the queen alone,
to sip on this pickled juice,
of tears and regret.
–
PROSPERMIND 
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