While waiting at the river Styx, in twisted time untaught,
From branches of the gallows tree, in recollections wrought,
Your soul, like beggar's blankets, hangs in crazy quilted knots,
With dangling pearls and diamond studs in dripping crimson clots,
And gaping wounds and bulging eyes like fouling apricots,
And wrapped in chains around your neck, the Reaper's grim garrote.