you're drowning in your mortality
a spectre de la mort  
snuffs your joie de vivre 

who will you offer your
 "hail fellow well met" to now?

I can't speak the language of the man I'm looking for

The one who'll save me from myself
But I know he tips his head just so

And he does not glad-hand

and he will not be surprised
at the feel of steel
serrating his ribcage

I savor my feasts on the earnest 
Their juices run different down my chin