Beneath the iron of churlish flask
The helbrin's darg he took to task.
With brazen and unbridled cold
T'was told to all, both young and old.
Forearm thrust wildly to the sky
And neck thrown back as if to cry
But halting only dids't he this;
The lonely whimper of thin lips.
As liquid pass'd with steamy kiss
to gather speed on journeyed gliss,
Splattering, dribbled off the tong
And fell upon the table long.
From blazing log to embered sea
At last cried he, "Brehaa I be!"
And cast his eye about the room
Towards the fire and thundrust broom.
His thoughts, stirred only from within,
By mounds of gold that might have been
And numbing now the memory
He sits with gaze turned glassily.
Upon the table warpped and bent
Reek'd with hell's own foul ferment
Lies branded deep within the glaze
The empty oath of Forniclaise.
A
WormHaus on Walpurgisnacht