The Devil works his whispering ways
and children coughing seems worse these days.
Ignoble toes move over your door
and Fate's sweet face aches terrible sore.
Come what may shouts Destiny's whore
the gift of life, ground cover for war.
Pleasure begrudged like tincture of woe
ghosts waters so fey and turns them slow.
Joy is above the mind's undertow.
Laugh at the Devil and away he will go.
Pleasure is simple in the foothill of dreams.
So go to the mountain and the unlit scream.
