Uploaded June 2025 | Updated September 2026, 1 week ago

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Lyric: Oscar Wilde

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And both were on his trembling hands
When they found her cold and dead.
The woman that he loved the most—
He murdered in her bed.

I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at day,
Watching that little tent of blue
As clouds just sailed away...

Each man kills the thing he loves,
Remember what I say.
Some with words, and some with swords,
And some just walk away.
But though we kill the love we hold—
Not each of us must pay.

The chaplain robed in ghostly white,
The sheriff cold as steel,
The ticking watch, the leather ties—
Things no man should feel.
The thirst, the fear, the padded door,
The silent meal, the floor...

I only knew what thought he hid,
And why he feared the light.
He killed the thing he loved the most,
And walked toward the night.

Each man kills the thing he loves,
By glance or by caress.
The brave one with a sword, they say—
The coward with a kiss.
But some are spared the noose, the cell—
And some must die for this.

Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas...