the lights are on the tvs off the floors are fleshy silk but sinfully soft skin glides over silk silk glides over skin the penthouse is alive tonight theres people writhing in its veins sunken in the masters chair lord golds face a blank survey women pleasure men at the wave of his golden hand and turn to receive as he waves again the wine is fire the whiskys full of stars theres a deaf mute in a bunny suit working the bar the lovers fuck they pulse and moan passion paying tribute at the foot of a porcelain sunken in the masters chair lord golds faceae a blank survey women pleasure men at the wave of a golden hand and turn to receive as he waves again still his eyes are like an empty carousel promising pleasure but offering none she sees him watching gazing leering blankly vacant worthless golden perfect beyond these walls nothing exists here theres flesh gold and blood in the wine outside theres barren emotional landscapes here we drink dream cum inside here theres no pain wash off the filth and bring her shower her body with julep and incense fill her with jewels covered in cum sacrificed in his alter of passions the golden day ahas come the lights are all off now and the love growing louder the pink throbbing and filling the room indulging the inner denying the outer shes brought before he his empty gaze it lingers he beats a cats paw against a toy drum his golden will be done