Lletres: Cradle Of Filth. Thornography. The Byronic Man.
:
As lonely as a poet on the wall of Jericho
Or the moon without the comfort of the stars
I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul
Is nothing but a split canopic jar
I proved it, improved it
Drove a sonnet right through it
And in this state of bliss
Evil kissed with wet lips
Pen-filled fingertips
Which drew me, for through me
Illuminati usually pissed
But with words of some hurts worth
I threw a party that extended God?s list
Exciting new flames that my face would claim for me
Reciting back the almanac of travesties
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manner
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch I excess and in canto
Grown wild this childe
Whole harems defiled
Faustina?s and Mina?s
Lady Libertine and her sisters between her
What spread of lies arise when lovers die
Which circle of hell is mine when I arrive?
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
Crow against the virgin snow
Grown colder, my shoulder
Like a boulder beside her
And bolder, not wiser
My dark seed took up root inside he
That mouldered, where older
Beddings would hold a passionate sigh
But laudanum and soda
Lord Numb coda
Merited a forest of inherited spite
Fleeing grief for foreign maps
I still played vampire aristocrat
Unloading my gun in hot, promiscuous laps
Then shooting swans in a gondola
I tripped my foot on a falled star
And there?s nothing like a mouthful of Venetian tar
To let you know just who you fucking are
The patron saint of heartache
Ever after, can they hear my laughter?
The patrons saint of heartache
Never craft a better bed of disaster...
The patron saint of heartache
They call me bad
Made Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
In excess and in canto
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerious to know
A passing fad
Whereupron I tell them
To go fuck their mothers
As so...
On my grave
As lonely as a poet on the wall of Jericho
Or the moon without the comfort of the stars
I am loathe to know it that a man without a soul
Is nothing but a split canopic jar
I proved it, improved it
Drove a sonnet right through it
And in this state of bliss
Evil kissed with wet lips
Pen-filled fingertips
Which drew me, for through me
Illuminati usually pissed
But with words of some hurts worth
I threw a party that extended God?s list
Exciting new flames that my face would claim for me
Reciting back the almanac of travesties
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manner
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch I excess and in canto
Grown wild this childe
Whole harems defiled
Faustina?s and Mina?s
Lady Libertine and her sisters between her
What spread of lies arise when lovers die
Which circle of hell is mine when I arrive?
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
Crow against the virgin snow
Grown colder, my shoulder
Like a boulder beside her
And bolder, not wiser
My dark seed took up root inside he
That mouldered, where older
Beddings would hold a passionate sigh
But laudanum and soda
Lord Numb coda
Merited a forest of inherited spite
Fleeing grief for foreign maps
I still played vampire aristocrat
Unloading my gun in hot, promiscuous laps
Then shooting swans in a gondola
I tripped my foot on a falled star
And there?s nothing like a mouthful of Venetian tar
To let you know just who you fucking are
The patron saint of heartache
Ever after, can they hear my laughter?
The patrons saint of heartache
Never craft a better bed of disaster...
The patron saint of heartache
They call me bad
Made Caliban with manners
Dangerous to know
A passing fad
Taught in all debauch
In excess and in canto
They call me bad
Mad Caliban with manners
Dangerious to know
A passing fad
Whereupron I tell them
To go fuck their mothers
As so...
On my grave
Cradle Of Filth
Thornography
Cradle Of Filth