AtLast_[07]

> To the Violins of Autumn <

Old Scratch sends proxies Time to time With gifts of bane, of pox, And crime.

From his nether oozing slime Sounds an eerie vox humana. Moloch's barbara voices chilled The few not left behind, as killed, Ripped red by vicious hounds who sought 'em, Hell hardened to the tones of autumn. Poisoned offspring, bent to ill, Gripping disaffected strand. Columns lock-stepped, stiff salutes, Heads snapped tight in grave attention, Seasoned SS-ence, stomping boots, Hoist the fall of man's ascension. Who are they To be so eager, Sullied hearts of ends so meager? Yet, who are we? Dare we dare to spare, while, they not us! Bayonets! Prepare to pare them! They will grieve our thrust and see More of trust to learn than we. From our surge will they perceive, Through clouds as these which roll the waves, Vision granted, to their graves. For strings have tuned Whose harp aligns Rabid curs upset the still, Bloating on defiled land.