Текст (слова) песни: Theatre Of Tragedy - Seraphic Deviltry
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 addйd 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 namйd, Tho` blind and fond the jesters rebuilt The machine alike - yet whettйd and dight are its edges...
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