There's a drum in the dark
The smell of burning myrrh
I try to raise my body
With that certain kind of strain-
For I'm covered with mire
And I'm drowning in the mire
And with that last strain
I'm emerging to foul air...

When mine eyes are dazzled
By the funeral procession
Of a goddess-queen who
Changed her portico for a pyre-
Slaves all around the corpse
All clothed in sheer gold
One fat's still fanning
Musk and perfume to no nose...

Then the corpse's on the pyre with
The hundred slaves beheaded
Their torsos fill the gaps between
The treasures and the wood-pile -
And with a mighty groan
Upwards the flames lick
To mingle the bodies, the
Jewels and the mire...

Still the drum's in the dark
Still musk in the air
My feet won't touch no ground
And my yells don't reach the sound-
Then a demon with a noose
Swiftly breathes in mine ear:
"A reminder for your journey
Your feet do now touch ground!"
And down the noose draws...