AtLast_[07]

No.

I'll turn your daughter to hurt you, You cowardly killer of virtue. Embers, Inflections, Cons descending in Ire', Burn through the ayes, igniting the pyres Irreverently fanned in fevered desire For rosters with shamrocks impressed, And parleys on crimes unaddressed. So Hold to your guns

To your drums To your vests To your oaths

To your rules To your writs To your tests. To your chambers of scream quenching walls To your hangings In dungeons To your shackles And balls.