Your fingernails peel from the heat
And mewling, catlike demons 
Mark you as property of 
Wherever this place might be.

You sleep through daylight 
And wake in orange juice 
And that’s that, ’cause 
It’s just pink champagne on ice, yeah? 

Domesticated boars add atmosphere 
To the otherwise empty castle
The orange smell must be 
To mask the scent of manure. 

This is could be the place where
The fresh dead children play
A roadside stop 
Full of diseased, amusing tricks 
A castle turned ball pit of rot.