Stay me still, if but awhile,
Wreathe then strike O’ trembling one.
Beseech my cannons, rumble past,
Take this blood trade to another souk,
No dwelling, no chamber, no land nor sea
Shall keep this iron from out of you.

Crept and crooked, you slunk and slithered,
You took what little life could spare. Caught,
And bleached you wriggled in drought,
Sunken deep in dusts and augurous mandragoras,
Protection blights naught my swoops.
Cower if you must, my trivial malefactor.

Want if you must, send prayer and word.
I shall not stop the races to cure.
Such prate nor leviathans will diminish me naught,
No, the grave is set, six feet and rising.
Six feet and rushing, waving, frenzied for you.
What comfort can I give? My skull is nearing.

For eye and for eye. For heart and for heart.
This needle is wheedling towards,
Forward it’s riding.
A stampede is moving forth,
To quick for doubt, to the engine of vengeance!
Like a trickle comes the ferryman,

Cold for your kneeling soul.

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