[Words by Raymond, Music by Theatre of Tragedy]
Ferie dearest, was it loe soothfast or a faade;
A serenade siren'd to
lure - Zounds! not to court me?
A menad, yet the sweetest colleen -
Certes didst thou me unveil meekly life
pristine.
Lorelei,
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei,
Canst thou
not see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Dedally didst thou perform the tragic
pasquinade,
For all years a damndest and driegh'd accolade -
Caus'd for all eyes mazed to behold a mlee;
In the midst did I
swainly cast thee my bouquet:
The one and sole faggot that feedeth the fire,
Bellow'd bidingly by my heart's quailing
quire.
Lorelei,
A poet of tragedies, scribe I lauds to Death,
Yet who the hell was I to dare?
Lorelei,
Canst thou not
see thou to me needful art?
Canst thou not see the loss of loe painful is?
Perchance author I thee this ikon'd apologue for
aught,
Doth the wecht burthen thee?, then bethink thine afterthought:
'Tween Aether and 'Nether art thou the peerless phoenix
-
Prithee, darlingmost! - court me rather than the peevish prolix.