Crimson liquid holds a key
Where the pounding comes to seek;
And the pounding of that I speak,
Sure silence— has left you, creep.
Antiques are disdained, but, can
You refrain? And that I wish
You spoke again, would question
All I comprehend.
Your soul has lace, you smile
Made like cake;
And while you begin to redeem,
I’ve finally seen the stakes
You keep and breed. And your quality
That bids haste,
Was never one of mine in the first place.