There's the angel of death on my lover's breath,
An exotic glint, and the spark of Seth.
There's a smoking wreath come from his teeth
and a greasy tuft on his jaw beneath.
And he grins and winks with the works he inks,
with the words he says and the thoughts he thinks.
And he winks and grins, and a web he spins,
and he gropes around for shaven shins.
For him it's a dance, or some game of chance,
each of us, a step for him to advance.
Then, stuck to his heel, we ache and reel,
we long for our hearts, which he managed to steal.
But he moves along, while he whistles a song,
and he cannot be bothered by “evil” or “wrong.”
He keeps up that chin, and that magical grin,
And he deals in seduction, but never in sin.
