Night warden
B-ward
East wing
If prison was eagle
Gaol Kilmainham made Gwahir
He’s at the furthest feather from beak
Where worst kept uplocked, those who’re plain evil
Unfit to walk our streets
Any streets.
Folk proud of double figure killing streaks, peeled families mere CoD kills
At any time of night, fifty people are being raped
Bent over tapemouthed, friends taking over, lower back a stabling table for sable hands
Rectums rendered purulent by brutality, voiding scorpion sting sore red water into shared toilets
Having to boil up cloth to wipe, those boys don’t let up their lease on a good toy
Most employ the services of ethnic gangs, or hang themselves using bedspreads before their first week ends.
Pantaruxada trooping through woods
Taking panther routes
Santa Compana sanctify avenues they travel upon, singing holy songs in white frocks with long, triangular hoods
As da nuite, midnight folk who stroke the heads of wolves, living in tree and leaf on blasted heath
Woes legion lesioned sky peopled by batseeming demons, scheming
Leathern wings scything
Lake alive with eels writhing
Hot enough steelboiling, where stealing thieves pay steep weregild for petty thrills
Ill angels theralone, on bone-footed thrones in submission to worse Eidolons, ancient ones who without form adopt craven images to walk amongst unwitting sinners.
Alchemisland 
Leave a comment