while the ghost of this house of flesh
is damned and burned in Marrakesh
while beauty bloats and youth yonders
time passes not in passion; it wanders
shackles turned to open arms in kind
take up arms, to arms, to arms in mind
and shoot to kill these vagaries
these zombied dreams; pale memories

a wounded tiger's cries in the night
force all to echo its owner's plight
want got him hurt; want always does
mistook the ache in his heart for something else, so he cuss':
"when love isn't pure, it is evil and weak
it is selfish and shameful and of fear it'll reek"

I saw his blessed face
and demanded that which I mustn't:
that he'd want my degenerate soul
but he doesn't

here, have another and another again
only teas from 'Kesh, only tales to my name
and a chest in the room not yet to be seen
the insides are guarded by many a fien'
colourful characters in battle and flight
take me home, to Rome, to where I have not been

I sought him, I fought him, I carried him high
laid my head in his head, laws of pride I'd defy
yet my mind wasn't still; this he pondered and ran
now I'm filled with these cries in the woods, no man
will comfort a tiger with jaws such as mine
the story of these stripes' too frightening a sign
and the jarring self pity, a pity, a pity