A ruined block on the edge of town
Where people seldom stray,
The perfect lovers' trysting ground
At the end of every day...
The shadows fall there, deep and stark.
Day sleepers stir and wait
For the steps of lovers in the dark—
Their dreams anticipate.
Don't trust the night-time lover
You find upon that street;
Beware the dark side of her.
In the widow's web, every man is meat.
His palms are cold and damp with sweat;
Only shadows bar the way.
Perhaps he senses the shadows' threat,
But he cannot stay away.
Some angel's vision born in dust
Draws life for him, and breath.
Beguiled, he draws her near in lust,
But the spider's kiss is death.
Don't trust the night-time lover
You find upon that street;
Beware the dark side of her.
In the widow's web, every man is meat.
At last she bends to taste the feast,
Drink his juices sweet and warm.
So little work to slay the beast—
You can feel Arachne's scorn!
Don't trust the night-time lover
You find upon that street;
Beware the dark side of her.
In the widow's web, every man is meat.
In the widow's web, every man is meat.