DEMONS sit on the rim of day Honing their claws for my timid soul, Wetting their lips in their lust to flay, Their black lips flecked with a bitter whey,
As they gurgle a grim and raucous lay.
Quaking, my pallid soul looks out. Safe in my heart—the puny mole! Rattling his wings he squeaks a shout. On frightened pinions he dares to flout
The slavering demons roundabout.
