oh - my dearest; the sweet music in the air -
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albeit, daresay I, the lullaby of an everso dark sleep.
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my precious,
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likest thou what emergeth yon the distant?
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the throbbing and breathing of life's machinery!
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wanion its oh so damndest soul!
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with the devil-instrument it we shall reap,
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after the banquet obscur'd in our thole,
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its blood so lovingly across our faces smear
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lord of carnage,
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lady of carnage,
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one funeral maketh many,
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swarm God's acres;
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two indeed more:
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blest treat of delight -
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give praise for the blood it bled,
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grant a rose for the dead!
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grant a rose for the dead!
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enraptur'd by the timeless beauty of the shadowsphere,
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we two abide the overlook'd time of the watch.
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make this cherish'd feast last
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but until the new dawn ascendeth.
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be still - harken the lure of night!
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bale in each its damndest shadow,
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clothe me in night, ne'er feel rue,
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in its face, behold! naught save grue.
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pray, ne'er come hither daylight!
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wane to dust the wight,
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velvet darkness, thee we ourselves bestow!
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misery it in velvet fright
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-----------------
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A Rose For The Dead
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Theatre Of Tragedy |