The Persecution Song Lyrics

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 demon's 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.