Cradle Fit For a Dirty Queen

Your passion,
this living without a fashion,
a passing fad in obscenity.

In city streets, empty,
save for the howling winds of nightmares,
the world seems to be falling down,
with her blood staining your hands.

A mouthful of her eyes,
like chewing on glass,
whereupon her skin thou sees the past;
a needle burning in the hay.

Go on in the fire!

Forget desire,
your greed has twisted on,
beneath the breathing sun, born,
wearing a crown of a thousand thorns;
she decays in God's hands.

And I carry now her brooding skull,
placed upon a throne in the burning trees;
praise on, Love!