Poem Sepulchre Poem by Granville Holt

Though oft one thinks your cube is but a ruse
With a succubus called rhyme, crafty woo
Of tempting romance passion in the muse
Which weaves it's twisted tapestry to coo
The helpless soul in each lines tender kiss
With an insatiable promise of lust
For immortality in lays sweet bliss
That blinds vain rube to quest beyond mere dust.

Oh, ancient lawless form born in disguise
As simple poetry for simple minds
How countless rest your fools in paradise
Where none escape and none be masterminds.

Yet one more cunning seeks to own your art,
The secret, not to see, but know by heart!