Fever Sheds Lyrics

A man stare's into fetid gutters and leering Meriden stares back; what cleanses is beyond him. What cures? Far above him. A pantheon of pestilence; paupers enshrined in Fever Sheds. From holy typhus' hands - as lowly drudge of noxious seeds to sow, a consecration of inflammation from callous soil did grow.

As blighted walls for gangrenous minds, for rusting spirits and fever dreams; opiate madness and sulphurous haze; all cathedrals to quarantine, naught but abattoirs for screaming lunatics with blessed brimstone in their lungs.

All that is dissolute and loathsome becomes his city; a byword for intractable human misery. And as they lead him through the gauntlet, the spires are reaching high, playing arms of Atlas. Belching forth their cancerous mire, poverty's sores weep into these gaping mouths; the gaping mouths of child and gutter-dweller.

This is how a nation dies; mile by God-forsaken mile, like seeds upon the callous soil, mile by barren mile.

Gas lights with tired eyes,their glare as perdition's outer circles, rest upon him - the conspirator - in machinations with Merihem. Yet, are his maladies to be counted amongst his blessings? His skin rots and falls from his bones.

In driving rain, from bridges o'er noisome waters hanging, he carves his words, in anguished rage, on the pillars of the golden ribcage. Withering beast under dolorous sky, with gaunt, stooped wretch plunging harpoon into the eye, saying: "All greatness firm in the storm".