Fatal Orgy

There’re seasons for singing and seasons for sinning, Both of them can combine: A feast for a glutton is only beginning, Naked slaves pour out the wine. The eunuchs are dancing, the minstrels are playing, When the Black Stranger arrives, But dukes are too drunk to hear all that he’s saying, Pawing at dead peasant’s wives. The crimson cloth curtains are suddenly ripping Down from the black Stranger’s blade, And sobering lords are all stumbling and tripping, Grunting that they’re not afraid. But too late they unsheathe their swords and discover Pestilent, putrid Black doom: A curse from a coffin with worms for a lover; Black Plague strews rot on the room.