Still it haunts me that I went – 

That I must go again – 

To that woman with morals bent

As corkscrews who, to men,

Is fanciable flesh and naughty tongue – 

To me her siren song is sung

When I’ve platonic hopes to nurse – 

She lures me along

All innocent, then worse and worse

Things get – I know it’s wrong,

Yet she’s a feast of all delights

Who drives me crazy certain nights.