Breuil

Wild and toxic rose down by the River
Ophelia laughed away
Her squalid chest bouncing
Shooting teeth into the sky
Whishes from too deep down that crooked throat
The sent of treason goes from mouth to mouth
A hint of gin, two mesures of body fluids
(mix excrements with the right amount of blood)
And then a thousand years or more, the gaping mouth
Leaves and thorns
The monk lay on the ground, pushed forwards
by an unspeakable lust for the hand that had carved
The beast he could measure
The pleasure of the line
The one note I understand