There are roach motels/ Set out around almost every portal to heaven/ Watch for them, but do not beware, my love/ For when the sweet die/ The adhesive turns to honey on their feet.

A drug called 'Christmas' crushed into your mirror/ That gives off tiny lights/ Dancing to the left and right of temples/ Coos in the voices of old hormones/ By having had to survive rebirth/ Pushing five seconds later toward new sensory lights