Nothing plain about Megiddo
Farplain midway devil o’er fiddles
Last day and first day reaching around
Forces cleaving the blue of the air, the horsemen four aground
A belfry with a tongueless bell, inside its shell a thing from hell, its servants girdled round.
What will the end look like
Suddenly, you’ll see it as if from far away
The end of your life, life the end of a gun
Big swirling black barrel beckoning.
Rooms of crap writers, can’t work lighter with cramp
Poor editors pouring over Ts of theirs, L Sprague De Camps
My segment isn’t over but I sense you decamp
Rounds with the champ, it’s clean out for a silkfisted scamp
Built different a Hawksmoor, something more, a hoarse roar, a blind glance
Stuck on my words like your wheels sport clamps
Between gulps of killered water, of oxgangs your laird boasts
Glistening are his hamhock hands, silvered by the roasts
Laird of lands, some, deny him not, but not a Lord of Hosts
Mound lord of heaped clay, whose slumber ties the restless ghosts.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment