Face In The Dollhouse
rating: +33+x

O wretched little love-sick fly,
no lungs to breathe that peppered tar,
what have you cause to moan and cry?

Did not the girl you deify
bring you into my terraced jar?
O wretched little love-sick fly:

were not, for all your wings she'd pry,
you paid in wool, cloth, cinnabar?
What have you cause to moan and cry?

O, that you'd see how shines your eye
in light, that glossy void's bright star,
you wretched little love-sick fly,

or how your fabric skins defy
your promised death, your every scar.
What have you cause to moan and cry?

Mourn not your body, doomed to die,
or love that left you, au revoir!
For wretched little love-sick fly:
what have you cause to moan and cry?

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