[Dark renaissance drill, bubbling alembics, thunder, choir drones] [Intro – bubbling glass, rain, distant plague bell] Aye... Whilst physicians pray, I provideth cure. Whilst nobles preach, I counteth coin. [Verse I – calm, sinister] Mine alembic singeth softly through the gloom, Copper breath and candle smoke consume the room. I hath turn'd common herbs to kingdom's doom, And sold salvation bottled in perfume. The pestilence came knocketh at the gate, The common folk did curse their wretched fate. I saw not death but opportunity's face— A merchant's dream disguised in mourning's veil. The monks write scripture, I write recipe, They seek God's grace, I seek prosperity. A dram of this shall steal thy misery, Another dram shall steal thy memory. The cellar gloweth amber, green, and gold, More treasure here than kings possess in hold. For every secret potion hath been sold, And every frightened soul doth pay the toll. [Hook – gang chants, low choir] Bubble and boil, Crowns from the soil. Coin for the cure, Gold ever pure. Bubble and boil, Crowns from the soil. Whilst they fear death, I purchaseth breath. [Verse II – faster pocket] The noblemen arrive in velvet black, Their steward knocketh thrice upon the back. They speak of morals whilst they fund the stack, Then hide their faces when they leave the track. A bishop seeketh powder for his grief, A duchess seeketh dreams beyond belief. A captain seeketh courage for a thief— Mine shelves contain relief for every need. The guilds protest, the physicians complain, Yet every rival endeth much the same. A bitter tincture mixed within his wine, And suddenly another market's mine. Mine lads transport the parcels through the rain, Past watchful guards and wagons bound for Spain. The Thames itself remembereth my name, For half its trade now floweth through my chain. [Bridge – choir, heartbeat kick] Glass and fire. Smoke and gold. Every empire Needeth a soul. Mine was sold. [Verse III – triumphant menace] The king consumeth medicines unknown, Yet many came from mixtures of mine own. He sitteth high upon a gilded throne— Whilst I decide what entereth his bones. The plague bells ring and every note sounds sweet, For each toll heraldeth another fee. The city starves, yet still it cometh seeking me, A humble servant of necessity. Now countless crowns lie sleeping in their chests, Yet all those riches first were droplets pressed. From boiling vats and sleepless nights possessed, An alchemist hath built what nobles guessed. Let history judge whether saint or fiend, I merely gave the people what they need. And if their hunger planted every seed— Then who, I ask, is guiltier than me? [Outro – bubbling fades, coin clinks] The fire groweth dim. The copper cools. Another batch complete. Send in the fools.
