Profiting from night here in the room, a prophet
Presaging a dark path, alone on promenade
Flowing, bogging up the wood flowerless
Flamen's murky, muddied spleen all empty of a flame
Pretext the evening recites as script before text
Preparing in solitude, the inverse of a priest
Flâneries terrify the demons and scoff at effluences
Flavescent nothings down in hell are there denigrated, flaming
Prow of evil horrible doom upon preparation
Pretending to say curses but ignorant of presence
Precious banality around the words pronounced
Fluid fake phonetics are the jinx's flying flag
Flattering with a harmful deafness, proud of their phlegm
Fading sorcerer seeming at all moments forlorn
