Текст песни
I'll strike you, but without the least
Anger — as butchers poll an ox
Or Moses, when he struck the rocks
That from your eyelid thus released
The lymph of suffering may brim
To slake my desert of its drought
So my desire, by hope made stout
Upon your salty tears may swim
Like a proud ship, far out from shore
Within my heart, which they'll confound
With drunken joy, your sobs will sound
Like drums that beat a charge in war
Am I not a faulty chord
In all this symphony divine
Thanks to the irony malign
That shakes and cuts me like a sword
It's in my voice, the raucous jade
It's in my blood's black venom too
I am the looking-glass, wherethrough
Megera sees herself portrayed
I am the wound, and yet the blade
The smack, and yet the cheek that takes it
The limb, and yet the wheel that breaks it
The torturer, and he who's flayed
One of the sort whom all revile
A Vampire, my own blood I quaff
Condemned to an eternal laugh
Because I know not how to smile
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