| Let me paint you a portrait of a man
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| Whose very name would define in times to come all things profane
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| Born unto privilege child of aristocracy
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| So tender the young mind, yet so unclean
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| His was a heart of darkness that beat within his chest
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| Breathing life into the crimes he’d manifest
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| Imp of the perverse on a bloody path he trods
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| Scribe of the unthinkable the Marquis de Sade
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| Outraging the laws of hate and narcissism
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| That to fight the inclination’s but in vain
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| Nature inspires our tastes bizarre
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| She paints them only as they are
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| From the darkest corners of the mind as real
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| As the morning sun shall rise, just the same
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| He wove his written word with threads of flesh throughout
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| He promised things so frightening they’ll turn you inside out
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| When terror’s grip has set your soul is set aflame
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| Behold the architect of pain
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| Unearthing fantasies too savage to reveal
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| Twisting your world with visions centuries concealed
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| Was he philosopher or was he just insane?
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| Behold the architect of pain
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| Each tale black as pitch dressed in the colors of hell
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| Your dreams will fill with the sounding of the knell
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| Feel the looming shadow of the hungry guillotine
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| And you’ll be blinded by the blade’s fatal gleam
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| Outraging the laws of both nature and religion
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| Subjugation in behalf or her domain
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| Or so he believed with all his hate and narcissism
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| That to fight the inclination’s but in vain
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| Nature inspires our tastes bizarre
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| She paints them only as they are
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| From the darkest corners of the mind as real
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| As the morning sun shall rise, just the same
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| Nature cannot bind you, you only need to serve unto her
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| Harming without stint or cease at the expense of whosoever may be
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| Their pain becomes your paradise, your lust their demise
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| Forced you to recognize
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| The beast within, he helped you to visualize
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| No desire to torment flesh and bone
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| The mind can cause far greater destruction alone
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| When the seed has taken root
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| It grows impure, your thoughts pollute
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| All things please nature, she has need of our misdeeds
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| We serve her as we sin
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| The bloodier our opus
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| The greater her domain and her esteem for us
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| Outraging the laws of both nature and religion
|
| Subjugation in behalf or her domain
|
| Or so he believed with all his hate and narcissism
|
| That to fight the inclination’s but in vain
|
| Nature inspires our tastes bizarre
|
| She paints them only as they are
|
| From the darkest corners of the mind as real
|
| As the morning sun shall rise, just the same |