Dance the Sycamore

Her partisan skin melted to a grey pale paste Debauched in glory and Moaning Lisa when she gave up the ghost for skin weaved under the light of a Venus beam mounted the demon hill and lay a backhand on my throat The universal untold and unfoldeth by chance we are a million miles into the dance A hungry mongrel child - Atlas’ apprentice Dancing Moaning Lisa in silver gown rolls herself and nowhere to lay my baldy head She reigns underneath the sycamore for a speck of dust in her eye lies