The Beast's Lamenting Dirge

Your sons are ensanguined and dead!

O whorish wilful mothers,

Throw him with stones from heaven above,

Merely his joyous consolation,

Don’t part away now, don’t part away now,

This damn purgatorial throes is mine!

Where the lecherous trees don’t dare to grow,

Even austere winters don’t dare to graciously snow,

And all the almighty branches menially bow,

To the dead they that nocturnally rue,

Hand in hand with the unnamed grisly demon,

Weeping at the bottom of the derelict fathomless well,

Who will bury the abandoned we?

And yet the snow to come…