The poem
I killed them, but they would not die. Yea! all the day and all the night For them I could not rest or sleep, Nor guard from them nor hide in flight.
Then in my agony I turned And made my hands red in their gore. In vain - for faster than I slew They rose more cruel than before.
I killed and killed with slaughter mad; I killed till all my strength was gone. And still they rose to torture me, For Devils only die in fun.
I used to think the Devil hid In women's smiles and wine's carouse. I called him Satan, Balzebub. But now I call him, dirty louse.