Braucherei, Braucherei intoned deep in the rot he’s a witch, he’s a witch seek his magic for naught

In the gape of Hex Hollow, vice devilry grows it’s a curse, it’s a curse Nellie Noll told us so

Braucherei, Braucherei bestrewn ripe in the thick he’s a saint, he’s a saint when your children are sick

In the bleak of Hex Hollow, drear tendrils do climb up the walls, up the walls varnished red with our crime

Braucherei, Braucherei reposed still in the rot he’s a witch, he’s a witch seek his magic for naught

In the haunt of Hex Hollow, vice phantasm crows— it’s a curse, it’s a curse Nellie Noll told us so.

Agatha lost, in the attic she moans at the latticework spindled around her frail bones weaving up from the floorboards, stale rot seeped below where you left her decaying, this star of your show

A perfection imperfect, played in the wrong key dolled up for the image you wish them to see; worry not, my dear Agatha—beauty prevails! Fill your heart with the promise of fanciful tales

Being told at expense of your labouring breath, give the crowd one last bow before feigning your death Oh, but Agatha dear, listen not to their cries for I know how your mind feels infested with flies

And the visions of maggots devouring your thoughts in a theatre dark, void of souls to distraught My, that rot! It has aged with its spores in your veins anchored deep in the flesh, blackened gangrenous bane

How they worry the stench will alert and offend, yet the world whispers not about those living dead; early grave we’ve been sent by the hands giving life early grave we exist, victims culled by the strife

Of an ailment invisible, doubted by eyes that can see without seeing, condemn us to lie for the thing which invades and dismembers our souls is a challenge for science, placebos, and moulds

They’ve curated to test how we function the best yes, we’re screwed in the head but the pills give us rest! Oh but Agatha, darling, please hear me and know that I too am immune to this quaint puppet show

And the drugs they proclaim will keep each of us sane? Well, they don’t stop the shadows that claw at our brains, only stifle the drive and the will to create crudely snuffed ‘til our love is defiled by hate

Drenched in mania cuffed to a picturesque scene, dripping foul with fine print they twist to demean every fire within, every promising singe glinting raw in the embers of madness unhinged

My dear Agatha, found—in the attic she breathes out the air of a life she’d lived only in dreams floating up from the floorboards, her corpse sleeps below where she left it decaying, once star of your show

Imperfection perfected, played in the right key dolled up for the image she wished them to see; this imperfect perfection who set herself free with the pills as prescribed: happiness guaranteed!

Were my love not brazen as carnival lights at dawn flickering madly to a waning calliope,

I’d have tucked it away in a matchbox, diffused the flame and snuffed the sparks—

Left orchestras to rot in the graves of all who dared to live their truth before us

But I do ask and I do tell when stars tumble from your lips to mine, the universe shouts in symphonies resurrected

Conducting our vaudeville hearts, harmonising whispers of ghosts pleading for lavish parades in the monotone stillness

For this love is brazen as a circus fire at dusk, too fervent a vision to hide behind the curtain’s fall.