All my lady-friends are dead but they are never going to leave
I'd give a fortune to the man who could give them breath again
But, they remain baggage of the worst kind -nostalgia so delicate
They're a cartel from the gates of hell -a malignant syndicate
Ladies,
give me a sign from the afterlife
tell me whether this is right
or might it be a base necessity?
Sometimes living a life of virtue, joy and devoid pain
Though it's often pointed out to me, one devoid of reality
I get flashes of being a real man, the sensation never sticks
Because I'm convinced that I've been cursed by the undead with whom I share my bed
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