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She glided out of the swirling fog,
with crimped cream hair all flowing.
And her smile was bright,
and her light blue eyes,
shone glittering and glowing.
And as she stood there,
by the start of the square,
I could see that she was a spectre.
Still I thought, all aware,
“here’s the answer to my prayer,
yes I’ll folllow you now where you beckon”.
I’d been tired, so tired,
as I’d trudged through the mire,
yoked to the whims of my father.
That ageing sick leech,
pouting petulant fop -
whose vibe was “Be tough like your mother!”
Whose out-flitting shade, as he swooned on his couch,
would watch me wherever I’d wander;
while in secret I’d dream, of sick-nursing a wife,
who’d sweetly share with me her pander.
Once drained of my blood,
in that pitch-black graveyard,
she’d quickly taught me how to hustle:
I’d beguile a young belle, of some
ancient rich pile,
and soon as her house guest would settle.
Then as her best friend, I’d enjoy with few ends,
all luxuries, comforts she’d offer.
When she sickened and died, I’d be there at her side,
then like mist would be gone by the morning.
I’d been tired, so tired,
as I’d trudged through the mire,
yoked to the whims of my father.
But, to my answer my prayers,
for relief of my cares,
I got even more than desired.
For as well as my belles -
all mens’ draining me past -
through my days I’d sleep with my cream princess.
At her old churchyard lair,
I’d lie wrapped in her hair,
while in dreams we’d be rapturous lovers.
Some said I was wrong -
I eventually found -
now at the start I didn’t think so.
It had been so routine,
for my father to live,
all his life off prosperous people.
He’d controlled, with his great,
psychic powers prowess.
In what ways did I act to differ?
Sick women sick men,
I’ve loved both without end.
In my changed state I’ve found lots of pleasure.
Now, maiden, right there,
walking into this square -
humming along to your i-pod.
Your clothes look so strange,
but I see that your heart,
holds all of the yearnings that I got.
Come out of the light -
step into the fog -
that’s hovering now in this ginnel.
You’ll see, all aware,
I’m the answer to your prayers.
Die quickly so good things can happen.
I’d been tired, so tired,
as I’d trudged through the mire,
yoked to the whims of my father.
That ageing sick leech,
pouting petulant fop,
Whose vibe was “Be tough like your mother!”
Whose out-flitting shade,
as he swooned on his couch,
would watch me wherever I’d wander.
While in secret I’d dream,
of sick-nursing a wife,
who’d sweetly share with me her pander.
Her sick beauty’s lure gotten pander.
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