Untamed, she sang at the crescent moon,
She sang to the tune of "Au Claire de la Lune",
With a snide smile painted over her face,
She wore no lipstick,
It made her lips sticky,
She sang with perfection,
her voice tousled,
from twisted lace,
and she snored,
and she crawled,
all over the hill,
over the cliff tops,
at Portland bill,
she roared at the men on the prison ship,
who waited in vain for release.
Had a babe on her hip,
The baby belonged to the crescent moon,
a beautiful infant,
conceived of a prisoner,
Locked up for a while,
because he was vile,
he was so very young,
as he hung,
and he sung his own song,
The crying prisoner's,  
ghost was chained up in the jail,
She  had held him,
so tight in his darkness,
And her beautiful heart,
he'd impaled,
for he was a dangerous man,
Left behind, just her spirit,
with boy child,
who wailed and sang to the crescent moon.
(C) Livvi