An hundred lumps from an hundred bumps
Clearly as those lumps signal mumps
I am her most astute student
In duvet-chewing dreams, I am lost in melee
My rune-scoured sword ichor frosted. In heaps the slain lay
Howling wolves descended before their gore soured, their claim.
The horse hour, the year of the glaive;
Tomorrow’s forever’s the leather against my face.
Heather purple emerges from my disgrace-denoting robes,
They need detergent.
Alchemisland 
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