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Sing of my deeds,
dearest viceroy,
and I'll think as always thought:

"What a tune—
a flightless bird what's
wings were chewn and apt to rot!"

For 'neath red skies
from the dawn of day
to eves a'marred in the brine of May,

you're e'er and o'er
and ebbed in rays—
a serendipitous luster!

O prithee, Lord,
this heart's desire!
Allay the mint in minds of men

and grant the
steadfast lee-side
of truly terrifying ends.

Consume the wounds
a'peak the pate
and **** the Lion's pride asunder—

*fetch your lantern by the dint
of thunder!