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Beauty paints the coats of savage beasts
Like smiles that disguise the truer scowl
One on one the other on it feasts
There is nothing wise about the sanguine Owl
Dressed in white the bride delights her groom
While he in mockery of her beauty fair
Hides from her the callousness of her doom
That lives inside his head; its evil lair.
Who can we trust? Is love a hollow word?
Is "being nice" a trail which leads to Hell?
Is not faith a fool's pretence absurd?
For from a lie the truth you cannot tell.
For all that lives, lives there inside your head,
All else decay of that which must be dead
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