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      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      (From the banquet hall to the stable gates   A graveyard shift in tone   Sank upon the castle, like a papal weight   Or a deep philosophical stone)      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