| You could counjure up a garden |
| of brightly coloured words |
| they shimmer and sparkle with cadence |
| they grow in the cracks in the pavement |
| but all you can see is victorian manners |
| vermillion eyelids white knuckles clasping |
| a book with no pages |
| will you ever know the raptures infernal? |
| your breath is eternal, |
| but blows only though you |
| your eyes are all white |
| an antelope summons you |
| come, come, come in come in to the mothlight come, come, come in come in to the |
| mothlight come, come, come in come in to the mothlight come, come, come in come in |
| to the mothlight |
| come, come, come in come in to the mothlight come, come, come in come in to the |
| mothlight come, come, come in come in to the mothlight come, come, come in come in |
| to the mothlight |