Call me not the doctor; I need a wife,
Who'll cut my heart open without a knife.
She will take my breath away, she'll stay my blood,
And take my smiles and run away, spilling on the rug.
She's the royal procession that wades through trees
That split the moonlight.
I'm the hound behind the mound that waits to snatch
The gem upon her pillow.
The wearing guards have never heard the whispering wind
So wild as it is tonight.
And by the time they've waxed their ears,
I've already taken their poor queen to my soft mound.
She awakes, and my shoulder quakes,
And my reason breaks.
So I flee.
I am not a frightened fox, I am a man,
Whose hardening face is forming one obvious demand.
Call me now a criminal, for I'll steal away,
And form a towering barricade 'round where I lay.