The Byronic Man - Cradle Of Filth

As lonely as a poet on the walls of Jericho

Or the moon without the comfort of the stars

I am loath to know it that a man without a soul

Is nothing but a split canopic jar

I proved it, improved it

Drove a sonnet right through it

And in this state of bliss

Evil kissed with wet lips

Pen-filled fingertips

Which drew me, for through me

Illuminati usually pissed

But with words of some hurts worth

I threw a party that extended God’s list

Exciting new flames that my fame would claim for me

Reciting back the almanac of travesties

They call me bad

Mad Caliban with manner

Dangerous to know

A passing fad

Taught in all debauch

In excess and in canto

Grown wild this child

Whole harems defiled

Faustina’s and Mina’s

Lady Libertine and her sisters between her

What spread of lies arise when lovers die

Which circle of hell is mine when I arrive?

They call me bad

Mad Caliban with manners

Dangerous to know

A passing fad

Taught in all debauch

Crow against the virgin snow

Grown colder, my shoulder

Like a boulder beside her

And bolder, not wiser

My dark seed took up root inside her

That mouldered, where older

Beddings would hold a passionate sigh

But laudanum and soda

Lord Numb coda

Merited a forest of inherited spite

Fleeing grief for foreign maps

I still played vampire aristocrat

Unloading my gun in hot, promiscuous laps

Then shooting swans in a gondola

I tripped my foot on a fallen star

And there’s nothing like a mouthful of Venetian tar

To let you know just who you fucking are

The patron saint of heartache

You can’t see my world is falling

The world is falling down

The patron saint of heartache

Can’t see the world is falling

My world is falling down

Ever after, can they hear my laughter?

The patron saint of heartache

Never craft a better bed of disaster…

The patron saint of heartache

They call me bad

Made Caliban with manners

Dangerous to know

A passing fad

Taught in all debauch

In excess and in canto

They call me bad

Mad Caliban with manners

Dangerous to know

A passing fad

Whereupon I tell them

To go fuck their mothers

As so…

On my grave