[Soliloquy by Raymond, Music by Theatre of Tragedy]
Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not,
aetat a thousand stars' birth He is -
Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is He held,
by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host addd are -
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry
say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
To claim the glore is He
"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
Wrack of His machine - like motion was I naméd,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike -
yet whettd and dight are its edges...