I’ll not attempt to care for those who cry
The weak and old and swans about to die
If now you knew the demon’s darkest glee
You’d never dare demand this deed from me
The death of man deserves my roaring rave
For I’m the son that snubbed his father’s grave
The fool that failed his friends and fled aloof
And ditched his dog beneath a homeless roof
There’s not a single sin unknown to me
When damned dementia sets the phantoms free!
That wicked way I swear above a tomb
And next blaspheme against the blessed womb!
The purest thought, inside my head, just rots
And fades as flowers do in poisoned pots
It’s thus defiled by feral fiends and foes
Of faith infested then with fetid prose
I’ll not be saved from vipers, vain and vile,
Unless I guess and gag the devil’s guile
Before it breeds the attic bat which spies
For ghouls who’d make of me a lord of flies