Painting the roses red
as we bled on petals white
and we nearly lost our heads
All for misplaced spite

We whittled the hours down
to nearly a thin needle sum
and fattened our bellies round
on tea and cake with Tweedle Dum

We pondered the meaning of croquet
in the gardens as we sat
watching ourselves sleep the day away
where the Hatter almost lost his hat

Now that beauty has bled
and the meek are bold
and chivalry is dead
and old fashioned: too old

Can we still write a tale
where good is golden and true
and our dear Alice prevails
no matter what she's been through?