I wear white wine around my hip,
And as I see again the feast,
Sat there at the table’s head,
With spoilt food in his teeth.
Familiar face, familiar grin,
The red wine spilling from his chin,
See the food rotting, crows picking,
Sat for seven years at least.
I fill my glass, I sip my drink,
And the scavenger, he smiles.
See there’s beauty in the coldest war,
And a suitor to revile.
Drink, drink, another drink,
And his eyelids they begin to sink,
See I don’t make a sound, another round,
Head falls, scavenger, he steps down.
Oh, in the vine I see,
The serpent waits within,
Dark foxes through the trees,
I’m breaking skin.
I rise, and I move to his side,
And I,
See, I can hardly hold my hand,
Steady as I take the blade,
And as any hunter understands...
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