Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Ullidge Brood

Their throats will crack, the crows will feast
in paean to our kindly beast.

We'll make them crawl, we'll make them sing
and praise the many-eyed, mumbling thing.

I hold it now, like Krell before.
I hold this flag till I am sore.

The staff is rough, it's splinters sting.
I hate the many-eyed mumbling thing.

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