A spectacle of tragedy in the air,

That brought mankind to squirm.

Immutable flagellation riddled with despair

By the lash of the Conqueror Worm.

Of passion, happiness, and hope forlorn,

In the flesh of a poet scarred.

Molested soul with loss only known

Ungranted wish upon a star.

Parted rouge lips

In Usher's crypts

Whispered of the coming Red Death.

The Worm sent the scourge,

Like a bitch with an urge,

To rob him of his bated breath.

Hell knows not fury like a poet lovelorn

Who sang in opium tongues.

The Fields of Mourning in which he was born;

For the Conqueror's will be done.

A house of incest,

Undead, unrest

Like a specter roaming her walls.

The Masque'd Death flew,

On a cold afternoon

To laugh when Prospero falls.

Aborted from agony that life ensue

Doth the Conqueror Worm grant he.

But the poet accepted this gothic muse

To spread this dominion with glee.

Sworn despair 'pon his canticle soul,

Bathed in his hopes and fears.

A mime in the form of a seraphim doll

Sees the motley drama of tears.

The ravens plucked

'Fore the larvae sucked

At the climaxed carcasses displayed.

Decay ruled,

Like a midnight ghoul,

In which the necromancers prayed.

This grim reaper in the clothes of God most high

Sends his pests to spread the Red Rot,

Robbing the poet of his Asphodel Bride

Ill-fated by the divine plot.

The lecherous dead

In their hands the severed heads

Of his loved ones from the past

His heart now torn,

Forevermore,

A mind now maddened and aghast.

So ends this sonata of merciless decay

Written with a raven's feather in blood

The poet's life now in sorrow and dismay

Like Elysium drowned in a flood.

Oh, how he dreams of opium wings

To grant him celestial flight

The choir of the Conqueror Worm still sings

To the endless splendor of night.