You shall know of my disdain,
The scorn of the unrighteous-slain,
When under the White Finger'd moon we shall rise.
How I yearn for that beautiful time...
Hungry and lurking and foul with grime...
Buried 'neath the wretched scree
Of a filthy, barren barrow-lea.
Only worms on which to dine,
So let me nibble your sanity...
Yes, let me pick upon your mind.
Embalmed with mud. Reposed on slates.
Left below the silt to wait
For the white-finger'd man to call on us;
To be numbered among his levy of hate;
To accept his gift of hateful dust...
