Out on the gloomy English moors,
In th' estate of Wuthering Heights,
You'll find behind its oakwood doors,
Violations of human rights.
Which is to say nothing of Cath,
Who died, haunts the Wuthering place,
Filled with reget, surfeit with wrath,
But leaves no corporeal trace.
And Heathcliff, the Beast to this Beauty,
Is devoid of both manners and charm,
And he thinks it a God-given duty
To impose of=n his family great harm.
Oh that there ne'er was blood blending
'Tween Earnshaw and Linton lines.
'Twould've saved Heathcliff's heart-rending
And also two families' declines.
But that wouldn't be enough Gothic,
For brooding Miss Emily Bronte,
And so we have love catastrophic,
And no one gets quite what they want.