Sibilant and macabre
|
Walpurgis sauntered in
|
Skies litten with five-pointed stars
|
The work of crafts surpassing sin
|
As She graced Her window ledge
|
- An orphaned gypsy nymph
|
This issue of the forest's bed
|
Skin flushed with sipped absinthe -
|
Her eyes revealed, as Brocken's peak
|
Tried once concealing Hell
|
A snow white line of divine freaks
|
In riot, where they fell...
|
|
The circus lurches in, a ring of promised delight
|
For seven days and seven festival nights
|
What wicked wonders lie within the comfines
|
Of the panther's den
|
|
She watches from a maypole, on the rip of Her tongue
|
The restless spirit of Christmas to come
|
A Gretel sick of merely sucking Her thumb
|
Than gingerbread men
|
|
Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial
|
She was the light of the world going down
|
War-torn, forlorn and malarial
|
She was found
|
Born in a burial gown
|
|
Unloosed, the chain of Her god-given cross
|
Seduced, now pagan ribbons swathe Her repose
|
In a carnival of souls sold and similarly lost
|
|
Too many decades misfit and mislaid
|
In innocence, a tender legend of prey
|
Parades Her second coming, now they're running afraid
|
|
Spawned scorned, abhorred by the aerial
|
She was the light of the world going down
|
War-torn, forlorn and malarial
|
She was found
|
Born in a burial gown
|
|
Now She moves with a predator's guile
|
Beyond the firelit circle of life
|
She soothes your cold heart for a while
|
Then matches its beat, synching in with a knife
|
She wrestles Her dreams with a delicate case
|
Espied by Her cross on the wall
|
And should She awake, through embrace or mistake
|
She would take Jesus
|
Bless foot forward and all...
|
|
Sibiliant and at last
|
The circus crawled away
|
With another lover in its arms
|
Dancing on Her grave...
|
|
-----------------
|
Born In A Burial Gown (The Polished Coffin Mix)
|
| Cradle Of Filth |
