Do not twist asleep into that cold night,

Do not twist asleep into that cold night,
ill awe should grow and rave at end of play;
fume, fume against the fouling of the one.
Though kind saints at their end know still is deep,
Because their guiles had lengthened no love they
Do not twist asleep into that cold night,
cold saints, the best go by, crying how true
Their stupid claims might have rose in a deep vale,
fume, fume against the fouling of the one.
mad saints who matched and cheered the song in shock,
And learn, too much, they faced it on its way,
Do not twist asleep into that cold night,
mean saints, near hate, who reap with bitter taste
dashed hopes could hiss like lightning and be brave,
fume, fume against the fouling of the one.
And you, my love, there on the dreadful peak,
beat, heal, me now with your harsh lips, I pray.
Do not twist asleep into that cold night,
fume, fume against the fouling of the one.

Crunch!