One, two, three — the oven is cold. Four, five, six — my fingers are sold. Seven, eight, nine — the doctor is blind. Ten, eleven, twelve — “You’re doing just fine.”
Tick… tock… I forgot what I forgot. Tick… stop.
The moon is a spoon And the stars are soft-boiled. I swallowed a tune That my tongue has now spoiled. vocaloid kikuo
La-la-la, lick the knife. Daddy’s home with a brand-new wife. She wears a dress made of Sunday clocks. And the candy just ate my tick-tocks. (Eat them up, eat them up, tick-tocks stop.)
Dolls in a row With their button eyes sewn— They whisper, “Come play where the daylight won’t go.” A merry-go-round with no horse and no crown. Just a needle that sews all the children facedown. One, two, three — the oven is cold
The parade in my skull plays a trumpet of bones. Every step that I take breaks the floor into stones. Mother’s soup tastes like prayers and old lace. She smiles with the teeth of a much younger face.
Here’s a short piece written in the spirit of (a Vocaloid producer known for surreal, haunting, circus-like melodies, childlike vocals juxtaposed with dark lyrics, and glitchy, repetitive, often dissonant instrumentation). Title: The Candy That Ate My Clock Ten, eleven, twelve — “You’re doing just fine
(Spoken, whispered, doubled) “Why is the moon bleeding?” “Shh. That’s just jam.” “Where is my shadow?” “It ran… it ran… it ran…”
Tick-tock, tick-tock… The rabbit lost his pocket watch. Mama said, “Don’t eat the sky.” But the sky was made of lullaby.
(Final sound: A child’s giggle, then silence — followed by one loud, wet crunch.) Would you like this formatted as a lyric sheet, or adapted into a pseudo-score with rhythm suggestions?
(Tempo: 160 BPM — frantic, like a music box winding down too fast)