• the human body, its art, so fair

    like the famous artists draw and compose.

    the toes on your feet, the curls in your hair,

    each lock falls lightly like a summer rose.

    but like the summer rose, it soon must die.

    the blood on the glass, your fingers betray,

    the wraith of death is comming, soon quite nigh.

    the color drains from your face, once sun rays,

    the chill of night, your black dress, now red,

    your voice once light and charming, the sun.

    the whip-or-will is sighing, sad, your dead.

    oh what dear friend, tell me, what have you done?

    but i wont compliment your sad choice here....

    the glass, your eyes, dead, staring at me, dear.