There's a drum in the dark The smell of burning myrrh I try to raise my body With that certain kind of strain- For I'm covered with mire And I'm drowning in the mire And with that last strain I'm emerging to foul air... When mine eyes are dazzled By the funeral procession Of a goddess-queen who Changed her portico for a pyre- Slaves all around the corpse All clothed in sheer gold One fat's still fanning Musk and perfume to no nose... Then the corpse's on the pyre with The hundred slaves beheaded Their torsos fill the gaps between The treasures and the wood-pile - And with a mighty groan Upwards the flames lick To mingle the bodies, the Jewels and the mire... Still the drum's in the dark Still musk in the air My feet won't touch no ground And my yells don't reach the sound- Then a demon with a noose Swiftly breathes in mine ear: "A reminder for your journey Your feet do now touch ground!" And down the noose draws...