In your most arrogant hours
you spoil like sweet fruit
fed to you on a solid plate of silver
perhaps it is my fault
you live life as a serpent
I bend the truth for you like spoons
sometimes twist it in two
when I try to drown you
with the tears from a crocodile
I see what they may
your lewd hands
my magnet mouth
and that we will never ever marry
even though you are more than elegant
in a evening suit
but I look into the mirror
and into your mortal eyes
for an evil that does not exist
They are deluded
you are not the devil, dear
and I
am not Proserpine, playing
but
this IS the death of beauty
we are just beasts
both of us
and looking back
we must get off on that stuff