Dark velvet fur, clasped closed by brass;
Supple cloth, curved cloth, like a bow.
By the seat of these pants, alone
Is that fire, setting you aglow?

Yes, I was enraptured and entranced;
Listening to the flaming flickers.
Under its spell, we had a chance,
Singing along, burning knickers.

And now I seek that silent room,
Stripped of all sound's real illusion.
You are absent from this tomb,
But these pants are on fire.

Lyre! Lyre!

Penned by my hand on the 4th of Mayan, in the year 640 AF.