You speak,
there's a fork in your tongue.

I placed it
as gruesomely as I could,
just as you did with knives
in my back.

Your words,
simple myths,
spewed it
so horribly.

Your words,
mediocre myths,
yet so credible.

They should be recorded,
passed down,
as you pass on;
down.

Hell beckons you.
You remove the fork
and I see your horns
how could you have hidden them before?