Ah -you thought I'd be the type
You could forget
And that praying and sobbing I'd throw myself
Under the hooves of a bay
Or I would beg from the witches
Some kind of root in charmed water
And send you a terrible gift--
My intimate, scented handkerchief
Dammed if I will neither by glance nor groan
Will I touch your cursed soul
But I vow to you by the garden of angels
By the miraculous icon I vow
And by the fiery passion of our nights--
I will never return to you
