[Suzerain of Sheol]

Slightly reminded of the opening stanza to The Byronic Man,

As lonely as a poet on the Wall of Jericho,
or the moon without the comfort of the stars,
I am loath to know it that a man without a soul,
is nothing but a spilled canopic jar.

Though your poem seems angled away from a libertine defiance of the mores of life. Kind of interesting to juxtapose them together, though. The final lines of both seem to arrive at vaguely the same place, though Filth's is predictably more graphic and I'm not going to repeat it here.

Not to mention the whole skull-goblet of Byron's you love to tell me about. :P