The Clock StruckThe clock struck nineThe illusion of a beautiful womanWhat madness can this be?She is calling out to meMy name my name on her lustful lipsAnd now my hands pressed on her hipsOh! Her smile! Her caress!That croon which must be blessed!The clock struck tenThe temptations of a temptressThis woman, so beautiful in every way,With my heart, she does recklessly playHer eyes so dark, yet brightly glowingHer hair so soft and gently flowingHer skin so silky cannot be soiledBut to the touch, is so deathly coldThe clock struck elevenThe prayer without the beliefWhat this gorgeous being is, I don't botherYet hold