Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not,
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Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is -
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Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
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August of a granditude of servants is He held,
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And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host added are -
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Pelf they are, dare I say!
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Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry
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I say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -
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Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
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To claim the glore is He suffer'd.
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"Grant me the fatlings", gouth He, "the fatter the better!",
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And died they of starvation;
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They are not slaughtering their fatlings -
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They are slaughtering 'hemselves.
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Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,
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And dare I say this burthen weightful was,
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Wrack of His machine - like motion was I named,
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Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
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The machine alike - yet whetted and dight are its edges...
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-----------------
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Seraphic Deviltry
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| Theatre Of Tragedy |
