At_Last

To The Violins of Autumn G.F.E. McGuiness

Old Scratch sends proxies Time to time With gifts of bane of pox And crime. From his nether oozing slime Sounds the eerie vox humana. Moloch barbara voices chill The few not left behind, as killed, While bile on the sands was spilled Of victims to his hounds who sought 'em, Hell hardened to the tones of autumn. Rabid curs upset the still, Gorging on defiled land, Whose poison offspring, bent to ill, Gripped the disaffected strand. Columns, lock-steps, stiff salutes, Heads snapped right 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? Do we dare them? Dare we spare them? Bayonets prepare to pare them! They will see.

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