Jesuit Night

Hill houses breed masses

Shifty eyes and milky thighs

Aided by her liquor cabinets

She's funny, lacks cunning

Leading hands to twin sized beds

Red wide strips line what's incoming

Like a fish gutted by

The will to wield the butcher's knife

When every field's a dying breed

The aimless still compelled tonight

Maneen presence of Jesuits

Could cut like butter; smell like brother

Would aftertaste of bastard habits

Burn boys, burn boys

Erect bonfire, deer admire

Malt gingerbread man silhouettes

All we have in this life

Is beneath her big brown eyes

Less tangible than atmosphere

I could drink you a million times