She is the gypsy

    Whose young have rooted

    In the very flesh of her scalp.

    Her eyes are drill-holes where

    Your senses spin， and you are stone

    Even as you stand before her.

    She opens her lips to speak，

    And have you believe.

    She has more tongues to deceive

    Than you can deafen your ears to.

    If you could look away， the voices

    From the heads of her vipers

    Would be hard to argue.

    If you could look away，

    The pedestals of your feet might move.

    If you could look away，

    The song from the cathedral of her mouth

    Would fall to the floor like a lie