Lyrics:

Whether he the quaint savant's power doth hold, I know not
Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth he is
Birth he is, birth he is
Quoth I that for reasons to me oblivious
August of a granditude of servants is he held
And by plastic consonantry
E'en more servants to the host added are
Pelf they are, dare I say

Maugre his diurnal seraphic deviltry
I say that deviltry, 'tis forsooth deviltry
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is
To claim the glore is he suffered

'Grant me the fatlings (quoth he) the fatter the better'
And died they of starvation
They are not slaughtering their fatlings
They are slaughtering themselves
Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask
And dare I say this burden weightful was
Wrack of his machine-like motion was I named
Tho' blind and fond, the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike, oh, oh, oh (yet whetted)
Whetted and dight, oh, oh, oh (are its edges)
The machine alike, oh, oh, oh (yet whetted)
Whetted and dight, oh, oh, oh (are its edges)