You're ashamed to think of such things?
What's wrong with a little bit of the devil?
To take his hand and walk his rings,
To melt that ice, within, and sinf'ly revel.
"Take up the blade you must!" he scoffs,
"Oh! and remove the touch of pain so real.
Be the flame, black, that draws the moth,
And send out a tongue, CRACK! To make them feel."
You relate with a thing so "foul"!?
Surely there must be a hint of the beast?
Never have I seen a horn or scowl,
But surely, it seems, you've, to say the least.
Ah, but why do you crouch in fright?
I've seen nothing of this suppos'd terror
Before you stands all but the light,
And I am nothing but glass, your mirror.
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