Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top;
I used to climb trees of fairy-tales,
And pick flowers of lullabies,
I used to look down to seas of sparkles,
And blades of grass for every good deed done in the word.

When the wind blows, 
The cradle will rock;
I felt gravels of the word cancer begin to swirl around my feet,
And leaves of cures and medication plunging from trees of hope and faith.

When the bough breaks,
The cradle will fall; 
I was climbing branches of imagination and dreams,
Until destruction knocked me down in the form of a breeze.
I fell to the ground that was your death bed, 
And your scattered ashes fell from iron clouds,
Painting my yellow-brick road to home.

And down will come baby,
Cradle and all;
I suck on pacifiers disguised as liquor,
And eat candy heart pills;
I keep a broken heart next to my bed side, 
The cracks filled with lies of “He’ll be okay,” 
and “He’s getting better.”