AtLast_[07]

Harder to divest of dreams. We'll Cork that cask from which they guzzle Sucking words. To spraying muzzle And with weary toll they'll watch The stream of silenced Sassanach. I'm not a man who's meekly bitter, Nor will I abide a quitter. Never has the time been fitter To cut against the grain. I've come to ease you of those pains. For I will wear their bloody stains, Stains of spit, stains of slaughter, They'll be blown from every quarter, As our column crashes down, To sacrifice on holy ground. Anointed by their rotting flesh, I am the heir of Gilgamesh, Emerald is my malachite My bog the wood for which I fight. I'm Tom Barry, late of Ur, I've come to turn this garden under. Be you the seed that once you were, I'll be the rain, the wind, and thunder.