Since 1912, I ventured and delved,
In this country of filth,
But truth be told, I venture so bold,
To wash my mind from her silph.

For from the red death, she took her last breath,
My beauty, Eleanora,
In dress of green, her face obscene,
But beauteous still in death.

My betrothed was dead, my money left,
When king and country called me,
To Africa, land of death.
In Congo, happy to have left.

But I was stopped, on mountaintop,
For I had seen what can't be unseen.
A giant gateway of stone,
With a dress of green?

The dress was filled by her, oh god,
For what god would have made me as sore?
But in the flesh, without of a drop of red,
Was my beloved Eleanora.

In shock I was, a right I had,
But when our hands collided,
The cold hand of a dead man,
Was what I felt, chilled and slimed.

With wave unseen, her dress of green,
And her inside it vanished,
A beauty that should have not been seen,
Her form and shape had been banished.

And now I pray to god
That in death I may adore her,
Because in my lifetime,
I shall never see again the beauty that is my Eleanora!

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