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Elizabeth christened, no paler a rose |
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Grew so dark as this sylph |
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None more cold in repose |
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Yet Her beauty spun webs |
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Round hearts a glance would betroth |
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She feared the light |
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So when She fell like a sinner to vice |
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Under austere, puritanical rule |
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She sacrificed... |
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Mandragora like virgins to rats in the wall |
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But after whipangels licked prisoners, thralled |
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Never were Her dreams so maniacally cruel |
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(And possessed of such delights) |
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For ravens winged Her nightly flights |
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Of erotica |
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Half spurned from the pulpit |
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Torments to occur |
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Half learnt from the cabal of demons |
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In Her |
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Her walk went to voodoo |
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To see Her own shadow adored |
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At mass without flaw |
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Though inwards She abhored |
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Not Her coven of suitors |
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But the stare of their Lord! |