The Black Cat saunters towards the dawn,
while the little lilac lover lies in effervescent bloom.
Stopping shortly to lick its paws
Le Chat Noir prepares to deliver la petite mort
a tiny rush of temporary doom.
The Mahogany King speaks in bismuth,
for his heavy metal words are brittle
and hard to chew.
But in his weakly radioactive speech
there are aeons, lo,
the morning sky reflects his tinged pinkish hue.
Last night carried with it such a violence,
but with passions fulfilled
the animals all come slinking back.
In his trunk the Mahogany King welcomes
the return of his purring heart,
