Take her to the room, Find out what's wrong,
  But there's nothing wrong with her.
  
  It's the reel, of only one venture,
  Taking me back to a stainless closure,
  Pull apart the little girl strapped on that
  X-ray,
  Pull apart the little churl, so she can't
  Get away,
  Epic trouble, In slumberland,
  Forgot,
  The Dreams that I had,
  Because,
  Of the trouble in my hand,
  Septic colons spur the lift of the man.
  We write, with a doubt in our hand.
  
  Take her to the room, find out what's
  Wrong,
  There's nothing wrong with
  Her,
  Filthy sand is all I had, With
  dreams of trouble, All I had
  Was
  One Woman.