After saying his nightly prayer

To the north wind in the east,

He takes his bowl,

His water bowl,

And quickly drinks his feast.

Tasting blood,

He drinks it faster,

Craving the sin it contains.

The sin matters not,

For he bothers not,

With the tedious rules of the sane.

A brush with light,

A moment of clarity,

Brings him back to his pain;

Whimpering softly,

Ever so softly,

He rocks back and forth again.

Singing of the spider,

That itsy bitsy spider,

The man screams out in vain,

For he is alone,

So very alone,

His soul has gone insane.