The Warlock and the Wall

Can rarely find a moment's peace
The bass throbbing, aural penetration
The drunk laughter drifting through
And the shrill chatter of whores
 
He draws demons on the wall
In frantic dance and copulation
Swilling blood and feces
In mutual sacrifice to their gods
 
Now naught but silence from next door
Could be the quiet of the tomb
The peace found in the dead of night
Now that he can frigging write.