(Tempo: 160 BPM — frantic, like a music box winding down too fast)
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.”
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.
The moon is a spoon And the stars are soft-boiled. I swallowed a tune That my tongue has now spoiled.
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
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)
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.” vocaloid kikuo
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. (Tempo: 160 BPM — frantic, like a music
The moon is a spoon And the stars are soft-boiled. I swallowed a tune That my tongue has now spoiled. Ten, eleven, twelve — “You’re doing just fine
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
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?