Artists whose lyrics are actually a joy to read on the printed page. And examples if you wish.

Grand Belial's Key and Arghoslent (same lyricst, I think)

Fugitive
Witch-doctor
Born in an impoverished stable
Could this flimsy child truly be an predicted scepter?

Balaam's prophecy, Judah's predictions
Artificial pages of an unearthly fetish
Interpreter of the Torah
Worshipped by the Magi of Arabia

Hobo of Aramaic Tongues

The outline of a dead fish on a wall of mud
Signs of the resistance

Hobo of Aramaic Tongues

Frauds, hoaxes, serpents of Earth
Surviving on quails and manna
Christmas star of a frozen Palestine
Saturn no longer protects thee
...

JoeStork beat me to it but Handsome Family to thread

Craig Finn:

"She came to in a confession booth, infested with infections, smiling on an abscessed tooth. She climbed the cross, found she liked the view and sat reflecting on the Resurrection. She put her mouth around a difficult question. She said, "Lord, what do you recommend to a real sweet girl who's made some not sweet friends? Lord, what would you prescribe to a real soft girl who's having real hard times?""

Can we all please just calm the fuck down?

In an analogy that makes sense to most
This opportunity, it found me unmarked at the far post
But I blazed it right against the crossbar
Of the pub that you had worked in since you moved here from Bath spa
We agreed we couldn't trust the guy that didn't like a single sport
But those bow-legged suitors hadn't given me much of a thought
They said it smelled delicious, but it smelt of burning flesh
Not meant to be malicious but this is the cross we bear

The story of the winter I forgot how to speak my mind was like a nation's flag, but my breeze was too weak
How they dragged me to the hospital saying I had gone deaf
But I heard everything they said
It's just I had no interest

Our friends have put the two of us on suicide watch
And every second spent away we spend watching the clock
There are photos of us holding hands outside of the frame
I was there, but wonder where our fingers were all the same
It's like a self-restraint
It's the size of a fingernail
And then we chew it down
Yeah we chew it down all the same
Sad eyes for sad goodbyes
It's a crime, it's a crime, it's a crime, it's a crime

First and foremost, let it be said
I am writing this at 7:10 am
On the hard dry tarmac of a vacant forecourt
Astronomically speaking, it's the first day of autumn
But the sun is hanging round like summer's hungover
They'll knock the garage down and build flats where I sit
The traffic's so persistent that it barely registers
And it smells like a mix between petrol and dog shit

Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your back
I just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"

Sometimes it's just enough to know I keep him on his toes
Is he as sympathetic as me to the untimely demise of your synthetic clothes?
I've displayed marriage proposals on the Jumbotrons of ballgames you've not been at
I've written eulogies in guestbooks of galleries in the hopes that you might pass

She: nervous and barefoot, chats to me at the front door
He: boyfriend, inside's a saint, becoming a martyr
Me: rolling, writhing on the floor, stared daggers pulled from my thoracic wall
When I hold sea shells to my ears, I'm pretty sure I can hear you

He gave a gift of the Faber Book of Love Poems
Annotated the ones he thought applied the most
Not gonna win you round with prose
If anyone should know then it's I should know (Oh-oh)
Girl, there must be a reason you let it slip
Went to the point of sending the message
Six months of visceral Catherine Wheels
Kissing carnivores to make it seem like less of a deal

I promise after this I will pick up the phone book
And choose the name that my eyes fall upon on their first look
Aim all of my poorly composed declarations there in the future
I'm so sorry to have to put you through a lifetime of dedications that you never desired
But this one sentence bludgeons me over the head
(Okay) I'm a little bit drunk, and I mean just a little bit
No lush in denial, only rather coquettish
I'm fifteen years old and my parents' only son
Like I barely survived a girls' school education
Prettier now that you've grown your hair long
I'm a slip of a man since I cut mine all off

Please just let me be the one to keep track
Of the freckles and the moles on your back

Shit, also anything Dickon wrote, especially the first Fosca album.

And OBVIOUSLY the entire catologue of John D.

I dreamt the film of my life as directed by Joseph Losey
It was eight minutes long, and cast as me was Parker Posey
It had a limited run in the small hours on Channel Four
And all of my scenes ended up on the cutting room floor
Because from Stockholm to Bolton they're coming to Soho in droves
For a sniff of some "face" whose skin barely touches his clothes
There's little more to your name but a cool, sharp, three-button pose
Ordering drinks with a flick of your famed button nose

I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left
You traded them for every friendship's death
Of which you're a millionaire
If truth be told, I only wanted something for my cold
I blame the lure of the laissez-faire
That you're the millionaire of your own hair
I left my last social circle and I hid for a while
I worked in an undertaker's so I wouldn't have to smile
There's five weeks' worth of homework nestling under your bed
While between the sheets skulks a grateful deputy head
After Double French you silently slip your moorings
And kill an hour or two in town defacing catalogues of vinyl flooring
You're swearing in received pronunciation to impress a cute librairian
And exchanging hooded glances with the townies and the precinct barbarians

I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left
You traded them for stakes in crystal meth
So you're a millionaire
If truth be told, I only came for something for my cold
I blame the lure of the laissez-faire
That you're the millionaire of your own hair

There is an ancient journalist and he stoppeth one in three
And he's asking me if I equate dressing badly with insincerity
He's writing a book called "How To Tell Taxi Drivers They're Wrong."
And he doesn't trust people, but he knows his all-time favouite song
Now the millionaire is busy pulling single dads on underground trains
And he's blanking the old hack with characteristic haughty disdain
Today he's fitting in a louche professor of Drama and Mime
He says "I'd love to be lonely but I can't seem to find the time"

I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret left
You traded them for stakes in crystal meth
So you're a millionaire
If truth be told, I only came for something for my cold
You're telling the newspaper questionnaires
That you're the millionaire
Yes, you're the millionaire of your own hair