Under the bridge, there's a tattered troll.
If he could, he'd have a pricey toll.
Instead, he'll remain content to roll,
On muddy banks of the river shoal.
Cause what does it matter if he stays low?
He's just an unworthy tattered soul.
Ahead on the hill, the air is fell
And the church in the distance
rang its last bell.
Then fog came oozing and one could tell:
This was the coming of the hounds of hell.
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 11:39 PM UTC
Under the bridge, there's a tattered troll.
If he could, he'd have a pricey toll.
Instead, he'll remain content to roll,
On muddy banks of the river shoal.
Cause what does it matter if he stays low?
He's just an unworthy tattered soul.
Ahead on the hill, the air is fell
And the church in the distance
rang its last bell.
Then fog came oozing and one could tell:
This was the coming of the hounds of hell.
A poem of mine from 2012
