The Persecution Song — Cradle Of Filth

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 The scent of bonfires everywhere And a fell wind stirred the leaves...

The persecution song

Telltale signs of possession Little Miss Demeanour in the demons bed Gasps she just could not suppress After lights-out midst the dead And a past on which sin cast its darts of wickedness

Time was running faster for disaster Strange nights were burning In the furnace of her dreams A name was uttered, Lilith Mistress, playmate, master Such sights were stolen in the throes of ecstasy

And in the thick of all In the Black Goddess's thrall With the wood unseen for trees Victoria stood tall Promiscuous in step The Devil breathing down her neck As jealous zealots stitched apiece...

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 She'd clung to her crucifix Once her torturers begun

Her screams came quick The miserichord 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 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