Akaan is the ruby-lipped maid who steals your man away,
At night he's dreaming of her face as a blind man longs for the day,
And always for her soft hips, as a starving man for food,
And her dark stained fingertips, and skin as pale as the moon.
All white and black and red, like a new dead corpse, she smiles,
So beautiful that you could cry, and for her a man would walk miles,
In snow with frozen limbs, or summer with bleeding feet,
And slip from sweet wives' arms, for that burning desire to meet.
Crimson lines track her perfect face, though tears shed were not hers,
And your man will wipe her cheeks, and sweet enough she'll purr.
Her eyes are white as bone within, and rimmed in ebony 'round,
Lovely like the frost sharp ice, they seal you to the ground.

Akaan is the ruby-lipped maid who steals your man away,
As pretty as the winter sun, coldly burning out the day.
And he will love her as none before, and his goddess she will be,
She'll wrap him in chains and burn his skin, and still he will not see.
You will wait with empty arms and wild hope he shall return,
As in the night she sweetly inflicts each deeper crueler burn.
But shall the sun rise? Perhaps, perhaps. And with the sun's bleak light,
He will see her blood streaked face free from the veil of the night,
Her champing smile, her ravaged hair, see her maddened eyes,
As she cuts the one last time, laughing as he dies.
Oh wife, you cannot stop her; your husband, he must go,
Akaan waits in the sunset, oh wife, do not weep so!
He does not see her maddened eyes, nor her blood-stained dress,
Take heart, oh wife, and do not cry--for war is noble, yes?