Текст песни Theatre of Tragedy — Seraphic deviltry

Whether He the quaint savant's power doth hold I know not,
Albeit ætat a thousand stars' birth He is —
Quoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is He held,
And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host addéd are —
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal seraphic deviltry
I say that deviltry — 'tis forsooth deviltry! —
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is;
To claim the glore is He suffer'd.
«Grant me the fatlings», qouth He, «the fatter the better!»,
And died they of starvation;
They are not slaughtering their fatlings —
They are slaughtering 'hemselves.
Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask,
And dare I say this burthen weightful was,
Wrack of His machine-like motion was I naméd,
Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike — yet whettéd and dight are its edges…