Alices in Chains

We see through a glass, darkly

So we prefer the funhouse mirrors

Goblin gods of our own device

Lost in a maze of twisted lights

Alices in Chains in Wonderland

Unbirthday tea with hot butter

Whiskered furs with the runs

Down the dark and hairy hole

A wishing well of lost delights

A pinch of salt to tease the faith

Maybe Jesus, or Something New

Queen of Hearts, or Cheese Fondue

Till the show comes to an end

And circus freaks pack up to go

Nothing to eat but rusted iron

And buttered eyes in thin glass

Trapped in a funhouse all alone

A circus surrendered to sand

Time to ponder his crimson rib

How Alice is Eve in a flared blue dress

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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