You know my muse is not my mistress.
She's a harpy siren true.
All it takes before she'll serve me
is pound of flesh, my heart will do.
As she consumes me she inspires
effluvia of pain her brew
that into me pours endless meaning
destroys me all completely through.
My muse you know is not my mistress.
Killing me is what she'll do.
Don't blame me for this thing I do now.
If she were yours you'd do it too.