The Nameless – Dagon – letras

Nightfall is the hour that shrouds himKnowing what he knows, see what he’s seenHe seeks out a substance to cloud himAnd should some wayward traveler pass upon his wayHe’ll tell them a tale, and it’s always the sameNo man can name what’s not meant to be namedA mist at his eyeA catch in his throatPsychosis embodiedBarely a man, yet not quite a ghostThere is no nameThere is no name for the thingthat’s not meant to be namedSorrow and madness in oneAn unseemly aura about himRagged in sight and reeking of aleHis detractors find reason to doubt himThe sea, he says, is boiling with sinlike some vast sunken sodomAnd he laughs not at the jest that theDevil himself doth reside at the bottomOne thousand grips do riseStronger than timber or canvas of shipCries to lovers, gods, and mothersIssue from men, the last word on their lips