In Cloree's Castle rows of dim candles,
Lead up the stairs to Agamemnon’s room.
And behind the door, he sits at the table’s head,
While his face is a mass of tentacles.
His heart is a pulsating sac of puss,
And talon’s, dismally dirty clutch,
And grip at that which they know not,
Forever untangled and tangled again.
Why do monsters have to haunt the mirror?
He laments, with his head in his talons.
And why does the mirror haunt my bedroom?
I would give rest to these bloodsucking feelers.
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