Sweetest Maleficia
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Lyrics
"I conjure you Barron,
Satan, Beelzebub!
By the Father,
the Son and the Holy Spirit.
By the Virgin Mary and all the saints,
to appear in person,
so that you may speak to us,
and fulfill our desires.
Come at my bidding and I will grant you,
whatever you want, however vile,
and the curtailing of my life..."
He would rise triumphant!
All done up,
on a plume of raven wings.
Trafficking with sycophants,
sharing his cup,
amidst other graver things.
Alchemists and sorcerers,
stitched his head,
with the stench of pitch and myrrh.
The devout faded out,
but the pagan remained.
The candles burnt low,
and still nothing came.
Bearing golden secrets,
from a cold malevolent race.
He would have his demon,
he would have his vice!
All save his soul,
was up for sacrifice!
Despite their raising,
not a single hair.
Everything stank,
of witchcraft there.
From the stained chapel,
to the statued lawn.
In Caprineum on the lake.
To the still lit crypts,
and the slit of dawn.
Sliding down the towers,
it all smelt fake.
He needed answers not advice,
intending to devise.
A lengthy train,
of torture for the fool.
Who thought a seance would suffice,
or sighted, furred in dragonflies.
The signature of Satan on a wall.
Sweetest Maleficia!
Alchemists and sorcerers,
stitched his head,
with the stench of pitch and myrrh.
Planchette to Blanchet,
from ghosts to a priest.
Returning with a spider,
for the poisonous feast.
The Italian astrologer Prelati,
spinning sin.
His fingertips were scented with,
the tears from seraphim cheeks.
Part glamour and a hammer,
cadaverous and glib.
Commanding in a voice,
of frozen peaks.
He would have his demon,
he would have his gold!
Out of control,
Gilles' soul was sold.
Under mistletoe,
and the glistening snow.
Kissing in the shadow,
of abandoned saviours.
"So I shall conjure thee,
demons of the Netherworld..."
The air was sick with trepidation,
despair and desperation.
Then he fixed his covenant in blood.
Now all was rich and tapestried,
fragrant wine to shitty mead.
His new world opened with a claret flood.
Time was right,
this wretched night,
to etch the circles,
clear again.
As a labyrinth of razors,
led a blind man to the stars.
So too Prelati brought the dark.
It's name was Barron,
eyes like catastrophic tar,
imbibed with fire.
They fed him shredded infants,
on an altar full of scars.
Entangled in a dream,
the mirrors full of steam.
He scarce could see,
Joan's face reflecting through.
His last attempt to grasp at God,
lay blackened in a holy fog.
And now there were only Devils to pursue.
Gilles was wrapped in a velvet spell,
of Hell and her seductions.
The assassinated days,
as a Caesar gone by.
Barron, spitting acid,
as his magical guide.
Lit demonic pyres,
where once dying embers writhed.
Sweetest Maleficia!
Satan, Beelzebub!
By the Father,
the Son and the Holy Spirit.
By the Virgin Mary and all the saints,
to appear in person,
so that you may speak to us,
and fulfill our desires.
Come at my bidding and I will grant you,
whatever you want, however vile,
and the curtailing of my life..."
He would rise triumphant!
All done up,
on a plume of raven wings.
Trafficking with sycophants,
sharing his cup,
amidst other graver things.
Alchemists and sorcerers,
stitched his head,
with the stench of pitch and myrrh.
The devout faded out,
but the pagan remained.
The candles burnt low,
and still nothing came.
Bearing golden secrets,
from a cold malevolent race.
He would have his demon,
he would have his vice!
All save his soul,
was up for sacrifice!
Despite their raising,
not a single hair.
Everything stank,
of witchcraft there.
From the stained chapel,
to the statued lawn.
In Caprineum on the lake.
To the still lit crypts,
and the slit of dawn.
Sliding down the towers,
it all smelt fake.
He needed answers not advice,
intending to devise.
A lengthy train,
of torture for the fool.
Who thought a seance would suffice,
or sighted, furred in dragonflies.
The signature of Satan on a wall.
Sweetest Maleficia!
Alchemists and sorcerers,
stitched his head,
with the stench of pitch and myrrh.
Planchette to Blanchet,
from ghosts to a priest.
Returning with a spider,
for the poisonous feast.
The Italian astrologer Prelati,
spinning sin.
His fingertips were scented with,
the tears from seraphim cheeks.
Part glamour and a hammer,
cadaverous and glib.
Commanding in a voice,
of frozen peaks.
He would have his demon,
he would have his gold!
Out of control,
Gilles' soul was sold.
Under mistletoe,
and the glistening snow.
Kissing in the shadow,
of abandoned saviours.
"So I shall conjure thee,
demons of the Netherworld..."
The air was sick with trepidation,
despair and desperation.
Then he fixed his covenant in blood.
Now all was rich and tapestried,
fragrant wine to shitty mead.
His new world opened with a claret flood.
Time was right,
this wretched night,
to etch the circles,
clear again.
As a labyrinth of razors,
led a blind man to the stars.
So too Prelati brought the dark.
It's name was Barron,
eyes like catastrophic tar,
imbibed with fire.
They fed him shredded infants,
on an altar full of scars.
Entangled in a dream,
the mirrors full of steam.
He scarce could see,
Joan's face reflecting through.
His last attempt to grasp at God,
lay blackened in a holy fog.
And now there were only Devils to pursue.
Gilles was wrapped in a velvet spell,
of Hell and her seductions.
The assassinated days,
as a Caesar gone by.
Barron, spitting acid,
as his magical guide.
Lit demonic pyres,
where once dying embers writhed.
Sweetest Maleficia!
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