Beds and fire are lyres to liars so dire
Where black holes are red Hells that never tire.
The spine of blood is bitterness to bones
Where flows the soul of silver tongues in gleam
To innocent minds who are blind to tones
Of voices, and voices of, those who seem
To fog the truth in poison unaton’d.
Hailing stones and raving curses ont’ thee
Who singest words of an uncouth-like sooth
As if a fortune falls in path to see,
And lay – beheld! – by all the eyes of youth
Who thou deceivest in what they shall be.
Abuse the language of the pious not
For loss of love is all thou wilt begot.