Furred assassins navigate the dark corn fields,
Ears flat against their skulls. Silent claws.
Liquidator of eon-old enemies under sickle moons.
In the grip of slumber their tails whip violently.
Nos laus diabolus cattus, the hooded ones chant.
Entitled to the ancient crown; kill and sleep.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment