I thought the days of vice would never come,
My senses loathed sin and kept it at bay,
Yet a pleasurable rhythm of a drum
Left in my ear a lusty wicked play.
How oft in my proud and luxurious trance
I did long for pleasure, but acted not,
How true was Blake's claim, for I made a lance
That pierced my core with a satanic shot.
At death I gaze, through death I clearly see
Throughout life what life yields and tells and writes,
At sin I gaze, through sin I find the key
To the masked virtues in turbulent nights.
In a solitude of thought, I behold ,
The divine iron, and the nasty gold.
