Theatre Of Tragedy — Seraphic Deviltry lyrics

Lyrics

Whether He the quaint savant’s power doth held I now not,
Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is —
Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is He held,
And by plastic consonantry e’en more servants to the host addd are —
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry
I say that deviltry — 'tis forsooth deviltry! -
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
To claim the glore is He suffer’d.
«Grant me the fatlings», gouth He, «the fatter the better!»,
And died they of starvation;
They are not slaughtering their fatlings —
They are slaughtering 'hemselves.
Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,
And dare I say this burthen weightful was,
Wrack of His machine — like motion was I namd,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike — yet whettd and dight are its edges…