Shed the shroud with the full moon
      By warrant of the tides,
Bearing no ill-will or horror
      Beyond what’s in the mind.
Comes upon the scene with eyes
      Luminous as truth
Beckoned by the secret sources
Of children, old men and fools.

In gardens where the wild dogs bray
        Straining at their leashes,
Doctors peasants and nursemaids alike
         Wielding scalpels sharp and leeches;
Run quick, quick down cobbled streets
         Still glistening with gore
Wouldn’t you like to take a cut
Of our perfect little whore?

A penny will suffice for thoughts
        A nickel for the eyes
A dime will grant a glass bottle
        Of whispers tears or smiles.
When all that’s left is skin and bones
         The remains go to the fire
Dance ye friends beside us
As we alight the funeral pyre.

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