Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not,
Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is -
Zuoth 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 serphic 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", gouth 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...
💬 Komentáre
Pridať komentár
Pozrieť v obchode →
Pozrieť v obchode →
Pozrieť v obchode →
https://www.spark-rockmagazine.cz/liv-kristine-po-deviti-letech-vyda-solove-album-s-hosty-a-covery
http://www.spark-rockmagazine.cz/article.php?rid=13&cid=16846&article=theatre-of-tragedy-se-rozpadli
Buďte prvý kto napíše komentár! 🎵