'Neath - The Silk-Laden Whore

Feebly she fights to distinguish her name
To shroud what she turned out to be
A thin veil of jargon and insolence
And the fool is fooled again
Never will clarity bless her sight
We give the attention for which we are cursed
Still she whore herself for the glass eyes of the world
And the fool is fooled again

False pride she takes in feigning her quality
She is nothing but the spawn of a ruined race
A continuance to tainted probity
A portrait of an existence without base

Her antiquated sovereignty is long departed
Her angelic face has now been painted old
I raise the bronze chalice fill with her viscous blood
God grins spitefully as she writhes beneath my hate

Pure malice flows through my judgement
I spurn your ideals of enlightening me
My concordance with you weeps in the dimness
And my timeless thoughts of timeless reprieve
Who among you would have me do
Nothing but die?
Not long for this world as my wrath unfurls
With your pain I shall abide

Sow into the earth the seeds of my scorn
And raise great forests of abhorrence
A shoulder to cry on you'll not find here
Seek your forgiveness elsewhere
She screams in the furnace
Nothing pleases me more
Than to see an angel's wings torn from her back
And devoured, the silk-laden whore