Russian bourgeoisie.

My insides squirm; I'm nervous
My infinite muse and downfall,
once more,
asks me to dance
I spin and flit, unaware
I dive deep without a care
and as my sarcophagus cracks,
I ache to be back
in it, I can't win,
it calls for a requiem of sense

Jaws snap
shut
your eyes,
you shouldn't see this

Come on, bishop,
make it hurt.