Father Frankenstein Is Behind Your Pillow

The sun is up, the sky is red,
the dawn has come the stars have fled.
Your face so fair a damask rose,
though scorched inside, my feelings grow.
You only have to promise you will love me
more than the earth.
There's really no distinctions when
Father Frankenstein is behind your pillow.

The Georgian house that hides your name,
reveals to me a picture frame.
The tapered silk, the china cups, austere
and to proud for touch.
You only have to whisper, and like a slave
I fawn at your feet.
In the cold clandestine caverns,
Brother Dracula will caress your windpipe.

The troopers marching down that turnpike
road that leads to Glastonbury,
with relics of your grandeur once
entombed at Batheaston Villa.

The shadows from the crypt where Leo
jumped inside your horoscope.
Around the haystacks laughing
when your ring was lost.
The blinds are drawn, the candles waxed,
the cheese and milk lay beside my hat.
Your silvery hand had turned the page
where good Bathsheba had left the stage.

Those rainbows in your navel served
to gratify your disdain,
And in the scented glades of Adyar,
dear Annie Besant is dusting
her mausoleum.