The King in Yellow

Hush, now? No! Come here and listen;

  The maiden's song is wont to sing

From higher spheres, in reddened glisten

  Where claret stains reveal the King.

Draped in xanthous rags a-flutter,

  Jesters run, they come and go, 

As they have naught but lines to utter

  In scenes that shift from vrai to faux.

Avert your gaze? Oh, you may not,

  That play you've seen, will ever see,

In dreams, it shall not be forgot,

  Bewitched, thine tangs have come to be.

And veiled in phantom masquerade,

  The prying crowds exulting,

And much of sin and fear displayed 

   In acts with scores conducting.

But see amid that mise-en-scène,

  A shriveled limb protrude!

A thing that writhes from in between

  The thespian servitude!

It writhes!—it writhes! The vermin claw,

  The throng remains bemused,

And jesters praise its hideous jaws

  With sulfur breath infused.