Her music makes my ears bleed---
the seeds of doubt sprouts about
It fills my head with an ancient dread-
that the dead will rise from the fiddlers lies
and they’ll feed and gnaw at my flesh and bone~
what’s a little mouse to do…
nowhere to run!
nowhere to hide!
nowhere to cry!
only to die
I dare not deny---
The spittle of the fiddlers tune…