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A Poem Based on the old ways.
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch.
For your lips do not form, the name of our lord, who beat yours by the sword – and had you beheaded like nothing more.
Look at your past, you grubby hag.
Tell me the truth, do you not see the nute, over there by that mute – who was hung like nothing but a whore.
Yes, history has spoken, so call it a token.
Of our lord’s goodwill, decorated in frill, up there by that hill – where your kind is buried beneath the floor.
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch. Tis’ what we do, with scum like you, without caring who – so as to rid the world of such venom and gore.
Yes we have it in pen, so you won’t come again. For my lips do not form the name of your lord, who ran from his sword – and had mine beheaded; such a cowardly score.
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch.
For your lips do not form, the name of our lord, who beat yours by the sword – and had you beheaded like nothing more.
Look at your past, you grubby hag.
Tell me the truth, do you not see the nute, over there by that mute – who was hung like nothing but a whore.
Yes, history has spoken, so call it a token.
Of our lord’s goodwill, decorated in frill, up there by that hill – where your kind is buried beneath the floor.
Blasphemy, they spat – said; Heathens’ you hatch. Tis’ what we do, with scum like you, without caring who – so as to rid the world of such venom and gore.
Yes we have it in pen, so you won’t come again. For my lips do not form the name of your lord, who ran from his sword – and had mine beheaded; such a cowardly score.
