The horse and cart slowly meander along the cobbled village lane,
as smoke projects her pungent and spiraling emissions from thatched rooves - casting her grey contrast as she penetrates the menacing darkness and caresses the trees of the ancient forest, in her journey of elemental consummation.
Rotten teeth, debauchery and tankards of ale abound at the candle-lit inn, where the curvaceous breasts and buttocks of the wanton wench are roughly groped in medieval lust.
Her shrieks of surprise are an expression of unleashed restraint, that release a shower of blazing embers of interconnectedness, which prohibitively fertilise the barren land of depleted social mores.
Let us now share explicit and superstitious tales around the crackling moonlight fire tonight, as the screech of the owl shatters the eerie silence of Olde English folklore.
Look at the children as they gaze wondrously with sleepy eyes and open mouths, in a state of nocturnal slumber.
The tension is tangible.
Long live the King.