In the shadowy recesses of my youth, each October I partook in a most curious ritual—a daily communion with the macabre genius of H.P. Lovecraft, immersing myself in one of his dread-laden tales as autumn’s chill encroached. Today, that ancient tradition stirred once more within my soul, compelling me to delve into the spectral pages of “The Tomb.” How strange, yet wondrous, was my discovery that the band Rudimentary Peni had woven Lovecraft’s very drinking song from “Dream City” into their haunting opus, Cacophony! Truly, it was as though the eldritch whispers of the Old Ones still echo through the dim corridors of our modern world.
“The Tomb” unfurls with the darkly enchanted life of Jervas Dudley, a soul possessed by strange reveries. From childhood, his spirit is drawn to a long-abandoned mausoleum belonging to the Hyde family, whose mansion had perished in fire and ruin. Jervas, unable to breach the tomb’s padlock, succumbs to a peculiar obsession, taking solace in slumber beside its cryptic entrance. Yet in the shadowy intervals of years, the tomb seems to call him, beckoning him with spectral light and forgotten secrets.
One fateful night, Dudley uncovers a key in an ancient chest, long since rotten. He descends into the depths of the tomb, finding a coffin eerily inscribed with his own name—“Jervas.” Each night thereafter, Jervas believes himself drawn to rest within that sepulcher, though others see him only beside it, untouched by its interior gloom. Haunted by strange forebodings of thunder and flame, his once peaceful contemplations unravel into visions of debauched revelry within the now-restored Hyde mansion—a phantasmagoric feast doomed to burn as it once had, and again, he perishes within its inferno.
Yet when he awakens, Jervas finds himself restrained, declared mad. The tomb’s lock, untouched by mortal hands, betrays no entry. Consigned to an asylum, his mind writhes in the unfathomable, until his faithful servant, Hiram, at last breaks the lock and reveals what lurked below: the coffin, bearing his name. Jervas, his fate entwined with ancestral doom, declares that he will one day take his rightful place, not in life, but in death’s eternal slumber, as the grave he sought all along was, indeed, his own.
Come hither, my lads, with your tankards of ale,
And drink to the present before it shall fail;
Pile each on your platter a mountain of beef,
For 'tis eating and drinking that bring us relief:
So fill up your glass,
For life will soon pass;
When you're dead ye'll ne'er drink to your king or your lass!
Anacreon had a red nose, so they say;
But what's a red nose if ye're happy and gay?
Gad split me! I'd rather be red whilst I'm here,
Than white as a lily–and dead half a year!
So Betty, my miss,
Come give me a kiss;
In hell there's no innkeeper's daughter like this!
Young Harry, propp'd up just as straight as he's able,
Will soon lose his wig and slip under the table;
But fill up your goblets and pass 'em around–
Better under the table than under the ground!
So revel and chaff
As ye thirstily quaff:
Under six feet of dirt 'tis less easy to laugh!
The fiend strike me blue! I'm scarce able to walk,
And damn me if I can stand upright or talk!
Here, landlord, bid Betty to summon a chair;
I'll try home for a while, for my wife is not there!
So lend me a hand;
I'm not able to stand,
But I'm gay whilst I linger on top of the land!