In a room filled with a solitary red hue The bourgeois spins a wheel With no destination, nor need She will spin until her brittle Hands bleed Just to satisfy her ennui and artifice But she does not see - the rien I see The monster approaching her empty dreams Spinning still - she does not know The insomniac rose will begin to grow The thorn of clandestine and ebony Ostracized for he began to realize What lies in nonsense is decadence Which sparks interest Who's lover is a dadaist But his story is over now As Seth lead the way A poet dies in dismay The thorn as she spun penetrated A distraction and a lack of action She knew the temptation for she so loved the sensation Of crass, rebellious - ways The thought laid it's seed In her Gaulish mind it breeds She has no other need and no regrets So she proceeds and the smile lets With full intention and desire Caring none of her fate that will transpire She presses her finger on the thorn So now she bleeds knowingly she did not recede