Starting six on their bitch
I’ll make 7, got the itch
All aboard, it’s time to dine
The banshees scream, Dementor time
An invitation to the party
For dark soirées inclined
A seat at the table in the city of God
The golden ticket duly appointed
But scoff and shake their head
While angels with their swords descend
They line up for the poison
Here, let me fill your cup to brim, while demons lips do moisten
For men most, a battle to great
sit and watch, their souls I break
Oh look! Even the mighty still do cowar
Stall worth facades coat innards sour
All trained to sit on leash
No matter who the master be
Bullocks to no avail
Shriveled dicks, the firm prevail
But gates shall soon be barred
No cowards flock Valhalla’s yard
Go flap your little beaks and talk
I stand up with the gods and mock
The wolf is at the door!
But leopards prowl in drapes of lore
With fangs all gilded and a fixed
To cut to bone and flesh in strips
And there t’will be no surrender!
7, if not, for one
For son and glory
You bitches run!
777
Smells like…
CRISIS!