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In the well's depth liquid pools, Sweet, sticky, viscous like treacle; Granted, it could be any sticky stuff down here, For sake of fatigued imagination Let's go with the cloying, alluring stench of treacle. And me, I'm stuck here -
- at the bottom of the treacle well, Glued safe in desolation's syrup. I am mislaid far, far down. Though a summer's day, I cannot see The littlest hole of blue-est sky. No ladders climbing the side, no sturdy bucket Hoiking up where the sun warms, To a place its brightness is more than a myth Told to fools. Here, no smiles, no comforts, Only the despair; So, humour my vision of treacle well, It's in a story told by the dormouse At the Mad Hatter's Tea Party - one of the adventures Alice had underground - It invites me to a smile And a comfort, though there are none.
