When it all becomes Gospel,
violating body
as the only chapel,
only the good now dying
are young.

When it all becomes Gospel,
with so many holes
more than two hands
can carry, one dies to
young tonight.

As the piano plays its tune,
lonely melody,
the clock strikes midnight
when it all becomes Gospel
on chilly nights.

When it all becomes Gospel
the blood drains from
the many holes in
my body, in lonely song
on chilly nights.

Come chilly winter mid nights,
Give me the midnight sonnet.
For this song more then two hands
can carry.

For those who seek to vilify,
care not your intentions,
but for your taste in blood.