Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms

Conforming with the nature of my analysis eyes  
dressed in veil prudent to the dark's descent of    
opium's decadency shadowing the scent of the  
woolsey's cold-cold heart listening to the pulse of  
the widow's corpse from a harp in the chandelier  
calling my name lusting for the pimpernel of the  
narcissistic daffodil calling me strange and pulling  
strings of St. Vitus Dance signing in with thunder  
as lightning strikes like fingers knitting a charade  
the rain makes ashes of my filtered cigarette  
have nicotine, will travel in my Rorschach  
" Rollin' In My Sweet Baby's Arms"