Here I am: a picture perfect
image of my victorian failure.

Not a dame, 
but a honest damnation.
Summoning up my own ghouls and demons:
since as above so below
would be so wrong and mellow
if the hearts would not be bleeding.

So let´s keep hell breeding.

And it would be terribly terrible
not to dance upon my own very crave.
What kind of a poet would not do that
since it is a horrible cliché
and so very intoxicating.

You intoxicate me
and life decomposes me
minute by minute - I am counting up my time
in my sweet velvet and lace - 
'oh, poor dear me.

Here I am: A picture perfect
empty, broken shell
for my demons to infest.

As a classy lady I'm not a tart,
but my newborn heart
is a very close image
of whoredom.