Theatre Of Tragedy - Seraphic Deviltry lyric
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Whether He the quaint savant's power doth hold I know not,
Albeit �tat a thousand stars' birth He is -
Quoth 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 add�d are -
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal seraphic 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�, qouth 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 nam�d,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike - yet whett�d and dight are its edges...
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