Year Of The Maggot

Beyond the funeral, floating
Cold bed far from the grey chain of haze
A caul wrapped in the jagged lamentations
Of seven 15th-century saints

Three crowns reforged into coffins
A triad of lead, cypress, and oak
The mouth of silver soon shall blacken
Just like blue blood will, when cold

The king is dead
Long live the queen of fools
From sweet to bitter
In the year of the maggot, 1632

Sacral geometry, cardinal lust
A pale voyage on sepulchral waves
A black ship of spiritual convulsion
On a raging sea of royal decay

Beyond the funeral risen
Behind the silver-mask, a foul smile
From the high urn, a stench of confusion
And blessed 17th-century bile

The queen is dead
Long live the king of flies
From sick to sicker
In the year of the maggot, 1689