I've fucked and fought my way across the south ‒
a bloody trail from Naples back to Rome ‒
a shadow master with a gobby mouth
and never any place to call my home.
The patronage of power is my shield ‒
dissolute behaviour is no bar
whether it's a sword or brush I yield ‒
but murder is just one small step too far.
So courtesans and young men heed my call ‒
there's always room for revels at the inn
where Holofernes screams down from the wall
and John the Baptist wears my broken grin
where Judith prowls the campfires like a ghost
and shadows fall as fever on the coast.