Purified or destroyed by fire. You decide on the evidence. A child bride, some Freudian ire. Summarized in a burning bed. Blazing sheets, all our glowing springs beneath. And cinders flying up the wall. It's no surprise that our histrionic rise became my meteoric fall. Down in flames, down in flames. Consign to ashes every claim. She dressed in red on the day that we wed. And beneath the nightsky's crimson wing the opalescent moon, the goatsucker's croon-how could anyone help but sing? Down in flames, down in flames. Consign to ashes every claim. Posthumous rumours of the son that could have saved you. Sustained an insult in the womb. Wounded pride. A co-worker's suicide. And other things he beat you to. You know that vine that you always did admire-that suffocates the competition? Propped up on their bones, it reaches for the sky? That's you alright, sister. I've looted my life to the very walls to find the nidus of my discontent. I do recall that I had the gall to give up church for lent.