Tied into a gibbon's hair
Fitted tunics, iron clogs,
Rusted to the Crannog's Jaws
Night gives birth to snarling Scars,
Full of rancored menace
That stomp about and smash the stars
Then hang their heads in penance.
A quibbled fax comes through her phone
As she's drowning in the bathtub
And dribbled wax runs down his throat
The soapscratch spells a message:
The youth forget the epitaphs
and burn the holy relics,
Dance around the mutant tree
Stuffed with candy, full of glee!
Given pocketfulls of rage
Teeth worn hard by nickels,
The oldest sage rattles his cage
And repeats, "Well, aren't we pickled?"