Text Písně: Seraphic Deviltry - Theatre Of Tragedy

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 addéd 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 naméd,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike - yet whettéd and dight are its edges...

Další písničky hudební skupiny Theatre Of Tragedy:

Theatre Of Tragedy - And when He Falleth
Theatre Of Tragedy - Der Tanz Der Schatten
Theatre Of Tragedy - Black As The Devil Painteth
Theatre Of Tragedy - On Whom The Moon Doth Shine
Theatre Of Tragedy - The Masquerader And Phoenix

Předchozí písničky hudební skupiny Theatre Of Tragedy:

Theatre Of Tragedy - Storm
Theatre Of Tragedy - Silence
Theatre Of Tragedy - Ashes And Dreams
Theatre Of Tragedy - Voices
Theatre Of Tragedy - Fade