She glides through the room with a smile on her face,
Drinking wine and spiking hemlock with a needle and a lace,
Wry expression, cold satire, she's a vixen of the club,
And she acts her life in fire as she mouths her words in dub.
Midnight makeup, coven clothing, and a zealot of the night,
Preaching pain and frosted laughing, as she draws upon your fright,
Charging music through her bloodstream and electric through her bone,
She's a daemon of the graveyard and her thoughts are set in stone.
Want to join the conversation? Sign in to leave a comment.