Pleasure

With whom doth the cross lie?
For whom doth the bell toll?
Of whence dost our time end?
Lying there in the wasting shadow,
The rotting flesh creeps toward the moon.
The silent assassin awaits thee now,
To lop off your head, and skewer your heart
Your brain shall pop out
And your tongue shall crawl
Your ears will hear the shriek of the wolf
As he chomps and chews your fleshy bones
And all the while the waves will lap at your feet