With milk glass fixed upon the skies
Our sister shifts through endless gloom
And leaving lowlands where the lie, she leaps!
to die in cinders,
burnt upon the moon.
I heard your song by the black Acheron
All salt-soaked and tugging on strings that at once
let rip heavy bellows and wimbering shrieks
Sure tore up them bellies of wander-lost freaks,
But I who cuts noses, clips ties and old cosys
Fared dance, drink and drown in that murkdrab of poseys.