What is it that roars in the distance,
O, mankind who's soul shall be made to weep
It is the bellow of The Lion
As he prowls upon his keep.

The Lion is the comupance of your sins, my boy
His glare the road to perdition
His teeth the the small brush
with which you clean the floors
of the stalls of Hell.

Janitor has one eye and
Railroad cap.
He knows the ropes
He has been long employed

Spitoon laying sideways
Shows the slow tenure.

Rotted tooth teaches wisdom
No comely comfort in
Convalecent Cell of Hell

Men in fedoras
The thought that
There are neons
and noir outside
And The Ghost of Lust

But none produces the tentacle tingle
My geriatric genitals swoon no more
at Turn of the Century Erotica
In that is cheap Irony.

Eeerie green light from gacious lamp
Shows spirits in the curtains
In the pictures
on the tin-types of the ancestors

"It is always about ten in the morning here, Witty"
"That is a nice time to be"
"But your favorite time was eleven thirty, was it not?
and also April and all her tulips and fertile smell?"
"Yea"
"It's March.."
"****..."
Did not even get capitalized because the soul is destroyed.
Beleagured.
Doomed (******).