I shudder at the specter lying by my head Resting on my shoulder in my winter bed In the day I pray that you stay out of reach If only I could stifle that wailing banshee screech
My flesh can not bear your unseen advances Your phantasmal strokes and sepulchral caresses A ravishment too ghastly to quaver in delight Your gallant tongue accosts me in the sleepless night
The reconciled lover who makes his final bow I stagger through the pall of the coffin crowd You pick the choice pieces to simmer and stew Wielding the scythe of a Scythian shrew
The eviscerated souvenir, bodyless and small Stuffed and mounted, I hang on your wall A gilded broach goes all the way through Digging in, you pin your desperate hopes anew
