| At the very start
|
| There were whispers in the dark
|
| And for all the world to see
|
| There was witchcraft at its heart
|
| And on the autumn air
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| The scent of bonfires everywhere
|
| And a fell wind stirred the leaves…
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| The persecution song
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| Telltale signs of possession
|
| Little Miss Demeanour in the demons bed
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| Gasps she just could not suppress
|
| After lights-out midst the dead
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| And a past on which sin cast its darts of wickedness
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| Time was running faster for disaster
|
| Strange nights were burning
|
| In the furnace of her dreams
|
| A name was uttered, Lilith
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| Mistress, playmate, master
|
| Such sights were stolen in the throes of ecstasy
|
| And in the thick of all
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| In the Black Goddess’s thrall
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| With the wood unseen for trees
|
| Victoria stood tall
|
| Promiscuous in step
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| The Devil breathing down her neck
|
| As jealous zealots stitched apiece…
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| The persecution song
|
| Telltale signs of possession
|
| Fickle Miss Demeanour hissed and disappeared
|
| To her Sisters of the cloth
|
| She now reeked of Astaroth
|
| Again the curse had surfaced
|
| Sneaking back the pagan years
|
| Weaving webs of great revealing
|
| Hidden in the convent
|
| An evil libido abided, undone
|
| Breathing, deceiving
|
| Feasting on her deviant feelings
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| She’d clung to her crucifix
|
| Once her torturers begun
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| Her screams came quick
|
| The miserichord
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| Den to vice and screw
|
| That had reddened many tongues
|
| Wrung symphonies
|
| Of suffering from her
|
| Many moons hardened pure hearts
|
| Those plagued by her black arts
|
| Their rooms secreting phantom orgies
|
| Vile rites and rifled graves
|
| Mere hours, now towered
|
| Above this bent and beaten flower
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| Her naked body privy to
|
| The Abbess and her ways
|
| Victoria fought
|
| No guilt was wrought
|
| Just a torrid retort of blasphemies
|
| Nails and crosses vomited forth
|
| From this pretty little whore now arched like Hell
|
| Arched like Hell
|
| At the very start
|
| There were whispers in the dark
|
| And for all the world to see
|
| There was witchcraft at its heart
|
| But then the end grew nigh
|
| A dirge inferno filled the sky
|
| In its customary key…
|
| The persecution song
|
| Telltale signs of obsession
|
| No wailing banshee would dishonour their name
|
| Nuns dragged her to the blasted oak
|
| Storm-clouds threatened holy smoke
|
| They hanged her there like Judas
|
| With the Hellcat in her reined
|
| Time was running faster for disaster
|
| Exorcism, torture, gallows
|
| Now a shallow grave
|
| A name was stuttered, Isaac
|
| Tongue-tied, simple, bastard
|
| They made him dig the pit
|
| Mindless of what it claimed |