Hang not your hat on my obituary,
Unless you have a longer peg.
For I will scribe darkness of my repast,
Sipping on my hemlock tea.
On the cuckoos and ticking pendulums
And long coattails of my coffin bearers,
Skipping along merrily, doing it fast.
Listening to screams of their sentiments,
Through it all I remain compliant
Of the fools that label me eccentric.
Contrary to their predictability,
I am but a vampire with blue balls,
"Will you pass the napkins please,
Swilling in my nightly hour,
Sipping gin from my cup of tin.
Swirling swill with trimmed talons,
Thrills of sins I comprehend.
A feeling of throbbing in my britches,
Knock-knocking on my knee,
Raising spirits of my immortality.
Masturbating on swollen lust
In the shadows of my lace vanity
And long eye lashes.
Darkness within my arising libido
And etching words of hummingbirds,
Journeying in my sarcophagus
As the freaking wheels squeak.
Of maidens caressing my manliness,
Breathing heavily on my fife-stick,
On pages of seductions I prose.
Flesh of November, the coming snow,
Performing fellatio down below.
Lovers of pleasures for my trove,
On the hard winds of nor'easter blow.
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