1.The beast and I
To think that every day I traipsed the paths where：-
Often I'd walk the streets of 30, Clarendon square,
Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte was also once there!
A descendant of a pompous ignoramus and dreamer.
It was 1838 and Aleister came thirty seven year's late!
Where just around the corner sipping gin at no. 6,
Would have been the nephew of that imp whose arse needed an
encouraging kick!
The diabolical philosophical seduction and fright of Thelema;
Our endeared great beastie tapping at libertinism's door
numbered 666.
A human pendulum, swinging between men and women for his
romantic fix;
Who up his ceremonial sleeve hid many a peculiar trick.
Abrahadabra!
It's our Crowley of Warwickshire,
All round fun fellow and tarot's dead Waite mocking jester.
Old bean I applaud you and your hermetic order
Through the golden dawn, I learned he illuminated quite a
character.
The wickedest man in the world!
Shrilled the moth-eaten mobs of tedious conventional miserable
sods!
The libellous envy of Aiwass and the echo upon a man now a god.
I fell swiftly in love as the royal pump rooms dribbled upon me
in awe,
Now a library that ever flows the foreboding of the bewitching
magician occultist;
Which I've fled to read by the memorial of Jephson deep into the
gardens,
An otherworldly escapist lost in a provocateur's labyrinth.
The novelist stole my heart with five words Absinthe： The green
goddess- Awe!,
You see, when I was the misbehaving ankle-biter, Emerald blood
was a weakness.
His inspiration now has me devouring it like a naughty child
lost to Krampus!
A demonic mountaineer who's climbed the most treacherous of
peeks,
Not quite as recreational as the substances he was known to
tweak;
How exhilarating is this chase between the beast and I,
Even the poetic great Briton of all time's mystique must
surrender to 'do what thou wilt';
To this day still, I Sift through curiosities of true will under
the ever watchful Horus eye：-
Through the snow white town only history could have built.
2.Sweet-laced with a screw loose
They see me beautiful, porcelain and fair,
Starry eyed for the night, with powdered ebony hair;
A rose glorifying the hour, as the Twelfth stroke chimes.
Yet I know how to wither the flower without spending a dime.
At court, I'm alight; straight-laced and prim,
When the masquerades over, I delight in the grisly and grim;
I'm not shall we say, What appears on the tin.
What once in the 15th was triumphant and brilliant：-
Upon my arrival in the 18th became survival of the fittest!
The ceilings adorned with cherubs plucking at harps,
Below we float upon clouds to the genius of a dandy Mozart,
When the curtain falls on this night：-
I've a plan for this evening's sweetheart.
For him it's destined fatal, Like Gustav III of Sweden,
After we've waltzed as a carnival, He lays bleeding,
My dish of tea, One century spoiled by assassination,
Ridicule me, I'm never afraid, I should be praised!
For I rock, shock and mock all in a crimson cascade.
They once saw me beautiful, porcelain and fair,
Starry eyed for the night, with powdered ebony hair;
A rose glorifying the hour, as the Twelfth stroke doth chime!
I could wither the flower without spending a dime.
At court, I was alight; straight-laced and prim,
When the masquerade died, I'd delight in the grisly and grim;
I wasn't shall we say, What appeared on the tin,
The voices in my head bought my world to a spin;
Your carriage awaits the coachman said,
And so I hopped right in, unbeknownst to me,
I'd been had, I was mad! So threw me in：-
Behind the bars, I sit and I sing a little something like this!
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