Javellisant

When will the tempest come?
O', carry me away, dear treachery,
For I know the worst of the worst,
Yet I refuse to cope with thee!

Thou shalt betray the martyrs:
Those who shed their skin,
Who bleed their carcass dry
From thine intrepid sin.

Whilst thou grace us
With the presence of a traitor,
Or gently glide among the crowd,
Alone on the equator?

I am neither breathing,
Nor am I in thy clutch.
However, I feel that I may be
The stiffest crutch.

How shall we grace thee,
O', precious little mink?
Thy presence made known,
And thy breath made to stink.