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Rudimentary Peni - Imps of the Perverse | Текст песни

Howard Phillips Lovecraft, heaven knows,
had a talent for writing which was of no means proportion:
only what he did with this talent was a shame,
and a caution and an eldritch horror.
If he'd only gotten the hell out of his aunties' attic
and obtained a job with the federal writer's project of the WPA,
he could have turned out guidebooks
that would have been classics and joys to read forever.
Only he stayed up there muffled up to the tip
of his long gaunt New England chin
against the cold which lay more in his heart
than in his thermometer,
living on 19 cents worth of beans a day,
rewriting (for pennies) the crappy manuscripts
of writers whose complete illiteracy
would have been a boon to all mankind
ah, but life is a boon
and producing ghastly, grisly, ghoulish,
and horrifying works of his own as well
of maneating things which foraged in graveyards,
of human/beastie crosses which grew
beastlier and beastlier as they grew older,
of gibbering Shoggoths and Elder beings
which smelt real bad
and were always trying to break through thresholds and take over;
rugous, squamous, amorphous nasties abbetted by thin,
gaunt New England eccentrics who dwelt in attics
and who were eventually never seen or heard from again.
Serve them damn well right, I say.
In short, Howard was a twitch,
boys and girls, and that's all there is to it.

[song without words]
tintinabulation tympanum.
tinnitus as the paraquets' song.

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