My Love, your lips are sweet as honeydew,
And red as cherry wine,
But there is one more sweet than even you,
More fine.
Your legs are white and soft to lie between,
And gentle is your touch,
But there is one more soft, more evergreen,
So much.
This lady is a woman I’ve caressed,
And held close to my heart,
But she’s no rival to your womanness,
No part.
Her touch makes cold my flesh where yours doth warm,
She makes my blood run chill,
Her mask is ugliness, leprous her form,
And ill.
But when she takes me in her foul embrace,
And when I feel her breath,
So foetid and disgusting on my face,
Like death,
Then Love, she moves me as you never will,
Moves me without restrain,
And gives me a contentment and a thrill
That I could ne’er explain,
For Love, she is a ghoul whose kisses kill:
Revenge, her name.
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