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