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Show THE SINGING VAMPIRE By George Sylvester Viereck Thou art no goddess risen clean From the infatuated brine; ' Nay, rather an exotic queen, A" dark, low-templed Messaline, Dumb till some human sacrifice Be spilt upon her monstrous shrine:"' With tears and blood we paid the price Of all those golden songs of thine. Life of an hundred victims throbs In thy enchantments fierce, uncouth, And through thy rose-red passion sobs The pallid wraith of ruined youth. Within thy bosom's labyrinth Has the monster had its fill? Why slay this stainless Hyacinth? Are there not men to do thy will? And though thy hungry eyes had rein Upon his boyish throat and hips, . His sweet young self thou shalt not drain, Nor bruise him with thy cruel lips. Fate's arm against thy heart shall thrust . The sabre of thine ancient wrong O man-devouring queen of lust, O scarlet mouth of tuneful song. And men shall' shun thee as the pest That see thy blood-red mouth and know, And though thou beat thine arid breast Yet neither milk nor song shall flow. The asp of unassuaged desire Within thy famished flanks must dwell, Doomed to endure till all things tire In an eternal songless hell. |
