All my lady-friends are dead but they are never going to leave   I'd give a fortune to the man who could give them breath again       But, they remain baggage of the worst kind -nostalgia so delicate   They're a cartel from the gates of hell -a malignant syndicate       Ladies,   give me a sign from the afterlife   tell me whether this is right   or might it be a base necessity?       Sometimes living a life of virtue, joy and devoid pain   Though it's often pointed out to me, one devoid of reality       I get flashes of being a real man, the sensation never sticks   Because I'm convinced that I've been cursed by the undead with whom I share my bed