A song by Seraphino Aurelius Belladonna
I Know Many Curses
Asked to sound more vulgar, Seraphino responds with maledictions of such refinement that ordinary profanity retreats in shame.
- From the album
- As It Ought to Be
- Album sequence
- Track 11 of 14
- First released
- Running time
- 5:17
The matter at hand
What the song concerns
A producer requests stronger language, assuming that intensity requires a smaller vocabulary. Seraphino obliges in form while rejecting the premise, producing elaborate curses that are theatrical, precise, and far more memorable than the blunt words he was expected to use.
The song becomes a contest between commercial instruction and verbal imagination. Every ornate malediction proves that offense can possess craft—and that Seraphino is perfectly capable of being objectionable without becoming ordinary.
In his own estimation
Seraphino, upon its composition
I was advised that the composition required ‘more cursing,’ by which the gentleman meant fewer syllables repeated with greater volume. His proposal lacked ambition. Any irritated stable hand can employ vulgarity; an artist should cause his enemy to reconsider the entire architecture of his lineage.
I therefore supplied curses with ceremony, imagery, rhythm, and sufficient specificity to remain with the recipient for years. A finely wrought malediction possesseth greater elegance than common profanity and considerably better posture. The producer asked for heat. I gave him weather.
“A finely wrought malediction possesseth far greater elegance than vulgar speech.”
The complete text
Lyrics
Mine producer hath declared
That I must curse more oft within mine songs
I shall strive to satisfy her
May every loaf thou breakest prove
As hard as any chapel stone
May every goose within the shire
Mistake thy garden for its own
May all thy candles lose their flame
When darkness falleth cold and fast
May every chair thou dost approach
Collapse ere thou hast found thy rest
Then sterner yet mine verse shall be
If sterner curses pleaseth thee
May thy harvest fail this year
May thy vineyard yield but thorn
May thy finest ale turn sour
Ere the rising of the morn
May thy chimney harbor owls
Of disposition most severe
If these suffice thee not, good sir
More curses shalt thou hear
May fleas proclaim thee sovereign lord
And never quit thy noble hide
May every tailor in the realm
Leave but one sleeve on every side
May every bell ring out too late
When urgent business calleth thee
May every monk miswrite thy name
In every worthy genealogy
Then let these words more dreadful grow
As thou hast wisely bid me so
May thy harvest fail this year
May thy vineyard yield but thorn
May thy finest ale turn sour
Ere the rising of the morn
May thy chimney harbor owls
Of disposition most severe
If these suffice thee not, good sir
More curses shalt thou hear
I perceive it now
Thou seekest mine most devastating maledictions
May thy boots admit the winter rain
Till every stocking squelcheth sore
May thy physician lose his spectacles
Whenever thou arriveth at his door
May thy baker burn thy daily bread
May thy brewer water all thy ale
May every bridge creak loud beneath thy feet
Yet never quite enough to fail
May thy breeches split before the royal watch
May a thousand wild badgers nestle gently in thy crotch!
I remain persuaded
That a finely wrought malediction
Possesseth far greater elegance
Than vulgar speech
Shouldst thou require stronger language
I know many curses!
Further evidence