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The evening air laps thick about The stagnant moat that Tiffuages claims As dusk now slips away Where taught to run, the rotten tongue Of a hotter Götterdämerung Has started licking like a flame Whispers in the dismal mist Are full of crystal promises Black rites begun in earnest Ignite Hell's hungry furnace Behold the bold inauguration of the darkside Demonic passions climbing Ill-fated stars aligning Tonight these sights are guaranteed to feed the master The tide of blood is rising His gifts will be providing Unmasked, the phantom lord De Rais Haunts the furthest tower Wherein death has sucked the hour There, throttled gasps tantamount for foreplay And drooling razors next to come Unspool red secrets from the young The moon grinned full, the games were chaste When the children first arrived Now midnight shadows crawl apace To darken council with their lives Flesh and ecstasy as sport Are immortal vices of the highest order Wherein devilry holds sway Behold blind walls where these cockatrice squalled Their songs of Necronomicon Spoke out of Gilles De Rais Each murdered son, each frozen rose Handpicked, was gently fed To the sumptuous one in black and those Whose lives where thrown in with the dead The candles lit, the stage was set As it was in sainted days When censers swung and banners hung On the Siege of Orleans on the painted Seine Now the castle floats in the drifting fog Torn from it's moorings Like a shipwreck dredged from Hell As innocents entreat a shiffing God Their voices soaring On a silver tide to heaven On a knife edge as they fell The blade would plunge in virulent arcs Such wounds would stretch away By the fireside, warmed to creative sparks Of the monster Gilles De Rais Gilded Gilles De Rais Comets vomited The restless bells of crime Peeled black skin from broken bones Of angels cut from the nicks of time Festering faces with painted eyes The prettiest kept to be thrust inside Gaping necromantic from the mantle-side Caked in kissed goodbyes Days faded in decay The stench of perfume lied No horror in the glades of man Was left for Barrom to provide So unique was the beat of his poisoned heart And it's sordid, morbid crack No further atrocity could possibly surpass Unrewarded, bored, he turned his burning back |
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