A carnival, a flesh farewell
Hiessens rising from the, from the dead
Wyman-Elvis, calls our girl
And counts the ash to where, to where he bled

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight

At the first, a crimson mist
At the second, sleeplessness
At the third, a broken tryst
At the fourth, a lonesomeness

Gawly the sweethearts leaves
The soldier's tears
The Riddle river grieves
Wyman-Elvis disappears

Only in a scrid of flesh
Hooked upon the hart's-tongue fern
Only by her own gooseflesh
Knows she somewhen he'll return