hungry for my pain,
its hewn from the darkest Yew,
planted close the tomb of Cain.
It sings and kills, a siren's trap,
bewitched, be-damned an air,
And all the while its prey merits
A joy too sweet to bear.
A joy whose end is strange and drab,
two penny puppet show,
the thrust of blade, a garden dead,
the piper's cue, "Let go."
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