Curious little Alice,
always tumbling down the rabbit hole,
batting her lashes at mad hatters and
finding solace in the smoke of the

She’d go back if she could, you know. 
Her time is spent in a desolate forest, 
searching for that white rabbit,
that hole to crawl back into. 

Curious little Alice,
looks different now that she’s grown.
She tumbles through empty bottles,
hope long lost on her hatter,
white rabbit skinned by the hunter,
there’s smoke and mirrors,
but no caterpillar. 

Curious little Alice,
running, running, running 
away from her wretched reality. 

I would go back, you know,
in a heartbeat,
but I suppose blonde never looked 
much good on me, anyways. 


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