Strangers on a Train
the key
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With rustling keys caressed by rusty nails
Her dress: A Dior of bleached skin and entrails
For her hunger we burn, burn at the stake
Impossible to sate
Yes, our lady of torture and insult
she cages us with debt and opium and pain
and when we're all used up,
can't even raise a cup (/lie on top),
she will wring every last drop of blood
out of us
Black collars round our necks, like jewellery
Her love: A stranglehold. A stranger to sympathy,
her mocking laughter peals just like a bell
from a monastery in Hell