The web spinners met on a cast iron gate
A doomed coupling of true romance
Raising the chalice to their lips
The black widows begin their ritual dance
Legs weighed down by the night’s dew
The air smells of iron, predicting the bloodbath
Burnt offerings of crimson and clover
Will never save him from the widow’s wrath
The waltz narrows to a halt
He is laid on the altar
Her lover has fallen victim to the Danse Macabre
With no hesitation or falter
She has become a mourner once again
But the widow doesn’t cry
Preparing for her next lethal affair
Really, he just had to die
