Dark Lord, Master of the Deep;
How low does your premise seep?
Chant your mantra, flick your whip.
Cast your desires with sweet re-equip.
Behold the smell of mystic leather.
Secom to the tainted feather.
Don your sleek crystal scepter.
Bind with your solid heavy chain.
Seek naught mortal distain.
Crack your long wooden cain.
Swirling pleasures of pulsing pain.
Shackles of the hardest steel;
How cold do they really feel?
Present your burning wax seal.
Sear the flesh with curious zeal.
Blindfold of the deepest black.
Suspended on your solid metal rack.
Silver spikes on soft velvet straps.
Nine sharp tails across the back.
Stinging precedes the long crimson track.
Tantalizing the tartest tease.
Contorting the body with every cease.
Playing the game with such ease.
How you so willing wish to please.
