O, Lola, where did you go?
What has time done to us?
Where did the lust find itself,
Be it our skull or vines
All this useless ambition
Suppose I am a simple fool
For you have escaped me
And yourself
All well and fast
Between our hollow hands
Cruelty remains
The abuse of such blessed love
And crooked ire
Now, sorry devotion
And ill fornication
Delouse our forgotten beds
In agonizing honey
As the finite pain
And debauchery befalls us
Could we die together
Slowly, once again?