NecromanceI shall often compare thee to the moon.
Someone with flesh that's always cold and pale.
She who bares skin that is that of a prune.
And arms that are skinny as they are frail.
Thou are much like a wilted, old flower.
Thou would have tales of a life that is gone
And though thy fragrance is like milk gone sour.
For such strange features, like these, I fawn!
But our love shan't be seen for it's beauty.
Our romance is frowned upon and is banned.
If not, then it's strange and fruity,
Yet likely that our love is a gross brand.
Worry not, for I don't care if I'm deemed vile.
We are simply a wife and necrophile.