The Blackened Memory - The Gold-Bug

[verse] “Fifty-three… three one eight…” [verse] Tide’s black glass, Sullivan’s Isle, moon bleeds through the pines, Parchment in my fist, skull and goat, cryptic crooked lines. Bug bit deep, gold fever crawls under my skin, Numbers dance like fireflies—cipher’s where I begin. Jupiter’s scared, mutterin’ ‘bout haints in the moss, I’m past the veil, bug’s voice hummin’, payin’ any cost. Tulip-tree marked, sixty feet up, death’s-head in the bark, Drop the beetle on a string—watch it swing in the dark. [chorus] Bug done bit him, gold or grave—swamp don’t forgave. Marsh keep secrets, bones don’t lie—gold turn to slave. [verse] Mosquito clouds, cypress knees claw at my shins, Shovel bites mud, sweat and fever, diggin’ through the sins. Left eye of the skull, fifty paces north-northwest, Jupiter hauls the lantern, tremblin’, doin’ his best. Vines like nooses, gators watch with ancient yellow eyes, Every root a trap, every hoot a spirit’s disguise. Ground goes hollow—thud—iron on wood, chest breathes below, Pry the lid, Spanish gold glints, doubloons in a row. [chorus] Bug done bit him, gold or grave—swamp don’t forgave. Marsh keep secrets, bones don’t lie—gold turn to slave. [verse] Coins spill cold, Kidd’s curse heavy in my palm, Skull on the lid grins—knew we’d come all along. Jupiter counts, voice cracks, “Massah, this blood money,” But the bug buzz loud—mine—swamp sings its dark symphony. Gold weighs the soul, chains forged in the tide, Lift the chest, sink in mud—nowhere left to hide. Beat slams back—horn stab, cicadas scream— Treasure’s real, but the swamp owns the dream. [outro] “Fifty-three… three one eight…”