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.
No comments :
Post a Comment