I Sing a American No Mediterranean warmth. No blue Odyssean seas. No Scythian horsemen. No ecstasy of bodies whipped fleshless. No joy of seed in a temple womb.
Sin is in.
Be ye faithful to the dick in your hand. Bathe in its juice, splash it on your friends. Sin with the bomb in your pocket. You will be buried in a coffin in a pyramid in a jungle. Heartlessness comes round again.