A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.
A dirge depress'd and darkly fair,
A consort of viols plays an air
Within a graveyard ruin'd and bare.
    I list and love the gloomy sound.
A consort of viols plays an air
    Over a slow descending ground.

O.O

My snow-globe is more rare than rare,—
A strange antique most singular:
Crafted by one in magick skill’d,
Its contents cannot e’er be spill’d.
It started as a crystal ball
Enchanted and invincible.
A snowman now doth dwell therein,
Blasphemous, foul, and wicked as sin.
He only dons a scarf and sneer,
This angry, deviled, little dear.
He bears within the globe alone
An endless blizzard’s blast and moan.
The little thing is largely mean:
He rages still and gluts his spleen.
He rages while the storm doth blow
Alike the thunder in the snow.

O.O

She said, "Your wish is my command,"
    And sat down on the bed.
I knelt before her, kissed her hand,
    And whispered, "My Love...play dead."

O.O

When I sit down to write a poem, I like to write in pen:
I dip it in inky blood, lick it,—and then I dip again.

O.O

She dwelt within the dripping wood,
    Beneath a drooping sky:
A boon for Evil, a bane for Good,
    The harlot had to die.

She didn't drown, but should have drown
    For her own Soul's dear sake,
When trialled by the nearby town
    That burned her at the stake.

O.O

When people exclaim, "Well, holy Moses!"
I find it funny.  The guy drinks doses
Heroic of wine and loves his boys
Like ***-wee Herman loves his toys!

O.O

“Poor Harry Gill” I will say never,
Yet what a fate befell that wight:
For dead and buried long, still ever
He shivers morning, day, and night.
And so long chattered all his teeth
That not a tooth his sad mouth owns:
Pass by his plot and hear beneath
The clattering of frigid bones!

O.O