What royalty is this character of love,
That you meekly rap upon his pearl door,
You the putrid peddler, but nothing of
Perhaps he will give you a trinket more?
What divinity is this ideal of amour,
That he owns your soul in a game of dice,
Splurging, spinning; Sinner pick six or four?
And though you victorious, you pay the price.
A life on the knees shall barely suffice,
Bent upon satisfying what you cannot,
This prayer to a god who left you thrice,
Writhing and raped upon a sacred spot.
But still, you shall sit in this peaceful wait
For the heart to suffer is the creed of fate