The washed-up man sat, sighed,
Frowned painfully, frozen to the bones.
On the pub's most disgusting wooden seat
He took his sweaty coat off
His shoulders bore the weight of his sorrows.
A single malt in one hand, breathing smoke from the other
His evasive gaze looking through the mucky window,
Crimson snow spread on the ground
He came for this soprano organ of hers
Captivated, lured like a whiting
The most amazing siren amongst sirens,
Whose freezing voice heated his heart up
He already forgot that recently,
Crimson snow fell over
He craved such a bonfire, a succubus,
Wished she could be his. On the humming pub,
Empty horny skulls, yet full of deaf silliness,
No one ever heard about the sound of
Crying crimson snow
His mind was now clear, full of wonderment. Forgotten sorrows.
The invigorated man put his silky coat on, gave a faint scowl,
Then left the smoke-filled pub, whistling t