Dangling corpses lacking limbs,
Their necks adorned with bloody rings
Infected bowls, three elfin holes,
Gouged eyes and vacant nose,
Roll like headless phantom souls
The waxen lanes, that entertain,
Howl and screech and squeal with pain,
As heads roll time and time again
Eyeballs, in darkened stalls,
Delight in echoed wailing walls,
As legless torso's maul and fall
A spare, a split, a gutterball,
A strike is what they're braying for
It's the moan of slaughter they adore.
2012 © LH
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