Restless and running, you're desperate, she's dead
Yearning and burning straight out of your head
For morrow, for murder and glorious greed
Sinking! You're drinking that sickly sweet mead.
Static with satire, she's chilled in the cheeks
Her mumbling and fumbling, quite simply, it reeks
Of loving, of loosing and boiling blood
Scheming and dreaming, her fountainhead flood.
