When I tire of the hassle
of the business world I know,
I retreat to my Prussian castle
to visit my bride down below.
Raven-haired, lithe of limb,
her skin is like purest snow,
and her eyes glow like the lunar rim;
she loves me, my bride down below.
No sun has touched her pale face,
nor the feelings of mankind,
and the sickle of Time leaves no trace
upon her body or her mind.
Sleeping amongst cobwebbed dust
where the cold winds do not blow,
she only feeds whenever she must,
my beloved bride down below.
Cold though her broad, deep breast be,
and no heart to pump blood’s flow,
she lives nonetheless, immortally,
undying, my bride down below.
Dancing with her at midnight
we cross the courtyard in twirls,
and though she is so sharp of bite,
she only feeds on peasant girls.
Lovers, partners, and soulmates,
we were made for each other;
I may have family in the States,
but she is wife, sister, mother.
And though one day I shall die,
it is a comfort to know
she will go on, like all succubi,
till we meet again down below.