The dark is a symphony
for poetic debauchery
kindled by lusting fools
and harlots hopping
over road and hills
As hermits of dusk sweep
the flesh of the carrion
and ashes of the dead
held in bondage by quill
while ink drips and dries
On a parchment of the thigh
and a tankard of rye
before my very eyes
my cock self-rise
in the fog of unruly cries
The dark is a symphony
for poetic debauchery
and cellos of melancholia
as hermits of dusk sweep
blinding lights
