I make death
payed in blood by hour.
I make death
payed with her swan like neck,
reclining on shoulders sleeping.
Her eyes fade to darkness.
I make death.

There is no world
that is fit for you and me
my dear bride.

Dangling down the chimney, on the wires.
Blood dripping into my mouth entire,
Our lips meet under a full moons shine.
For you my wife so divine, my darling angel
Out in the nick of time, before your time.
Tender fragile kisses, my bride of percelain.
Dangling down the chimeny, on the wires,
My soul consumed entire.
The massochism of needles and rust.

I make death
payed in blood by hour.
I make death
payed with her swan like neck,
reclining on shoulders sleeping.
Her eyes fade to darkness.
I make death.

There is no world
that is fit for you and me
my dear bride.

But I make death, not by force of armies,
or the anguish of the oppressed and righteous.
But by the guillotine blades,
dangling on the wire.

For you, my divinity, My wife of percelain and wine.