Ruthful crusader, to slay dragons pregnant with stagnant flame
And bold boar-faced jewels of Saxon make, and shield fragments,
Which elsewise would have broken
Before Billy the Bastard’s Domesday book ere opened,
One must lure the beast from its cave to some open place
At all times, one’s mount must be maintained
In close, inside its baleful claws range
Feint then strike fatally with wraith blade
My banner made from a cape
Stolen from a corpse.
That corpse I made
In mud we rutted blade, tooth and fist
Until the stone I had grabbed hit. Caved
In his brain-encasing bone, stone cold dead forever
Cruelly stoven
And afterwards rolled over rifled through and pored over
Like the contents of a drifting ghost ship’s captain’s chest.
Alchemisland 
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