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