I Am Jet Black, As You May See, The Son Of Pitch And Gloomy Night: Yet All That Know Me Will Agree, I'm Dead Except I Live In Light. Sometimes In Panegyric High, Like Lofty Pindar, I Can Soar; And Raise A Virgin To The Sky, Or Sink Her To A Pocky Whore. My Blood This Day Is Very Sweet, To-Morrow Of A Bitter Juice; Like Milk, 'Tis Cried About The Street, And So Applied To Different Use. Most Wondrous Is My Magic Power: For With One Colour I Can Paint; I'll Make The Devil A Saint This Hour, Next Make A Devil Of A Saint. Through Distant Regions I Can Fly, Provide Me But With Paper Wings; And Fairly Show A Reason Why There Should Be Quarrels Among Kings: And, After All, You'll Think It Odd, When Learned Doctors Will Dispute, That I Should Point The Word Of God, And Show Where They Can Best Confute. Let Lawyers Bawl And Strain Their Throats: 'Tis I That Must The Lands Convey, And Strip Their Clients To Their Coats; Nay, Give Their Very Souls Away.