The Conqueror Worm

Lo tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years

An angel throng bewinged bedight

In veils and drownd in tears

Sit in a theatre to see

A play of hopes and fears

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres

Mimes in the form of God on high

Mutter and mumbe low

And hither and thither fly

Mere puppets they who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro

Flapping out their condor wings

Invisible wo

That motley dram oh be shure

It shall not be forgot

With it's phantom cheased for evermore

By a crowd that seize it not

Through a circle that ever returneth in

The self same spot

And much of madness and more of sin

And horror the soul of the plot

And much of madness and more of sin

And horror the soul of the plot

But see amid the mimic rout

A crowling shape intrude

A blood red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude

It writhes it writhes with mortal pangs

The mimic become it's food

And the angels sob ar virmin fangs

In human gore imbued

Out out are the lights out all

And over each quevering form

The curtain the funeral pall

Comes down with the rush of a storm

And the angels all palid and wan

Uprising unveiling affirm

And the play is the tragedy man

And it's hero is the conqueror worm