Let me tell you the story of a tale of a fairy  
A secret entombed in clandestine sinistrality 
It all began when the first of an army of raindrops
Shattered the crimson dawn... 

A voice called: 
“I am your thoughts which never rot
I am the thoughts whom you never forgot” 

I retorted: 

“Stalk not your sanguine fingers 
Hemorrhaged from the mountain stream, 
To bedevil and curse 
And embitter my sweetest dreams!”

Next I knew I awoke in a dark room 
Not knowing what I did or will do 
It was the malignancy of the first Frost
After the summer of love 
Never did I find the source of the voice
The impetus: hallucinations? Was my first choice 
If I had to decide how I’d make sense 
Of my subconsciousness
I put two and two together 
But the result wasn’t four me
I still hunger for the genesis 
Which drew my haunted sleep 
Like carriages 

It turned hard to tell which way I heard a yell 
Every direction which did suggest was fruitless for my rest 

I said to myself groggily, 
“I wish to return to slumber, 
But alas my heartbeat’s a greater number Than I am accustomed”  

As I suddenly awoke the air felt filled with smoke 
The lights burned out and I could hear again the shout 
Of that bloke, that very same bloke 
Orating such unnerving things as before when it spoke 

It was then I distinguished 
The dog’s head beast;
Fatigued from anxiousness,
I finally returned to sleep...

I still hear their echo
(I still hear their echo
I still hear their echo
I still hear their echo 
I still hear their echo
I still hear their echo
I still hear their echo)
“Be still, my weary soul...”