Ripped from my outstretched arms,
O her weakness for worldly charms.
Serpentina Root and ribs entwine
As I dream of her moonlit eyes.

So don’t cremate me when I’m gone...
I won’t be gone for long.
I’m a sinner in the hands of an angry God.
Stick me in the ground and let me rot.

Where the grass won’t grow
And the leaves don’t lie
And their worm dyeth not,
And call me Ichabod!

O hearken the boneyard bells.
The tintinnabulation of [bad word]  [bad word] creepin’ out a dead chimney
With the turn of a skeleton key.

So take the long way around Mt. Zion.
Opt out of the ransom’d choir
No glory or divine amazing grace
Just to waft through her window lace.