Landed language in loss-ridden mouths
bloated words forged into snipers bullets
arrows and barbs tipped in venom
the worn armouries' of the wounded krest'yane

but words are words made to be discern
what good a ****** firing dud buck shots
are craven heathens expected to pen sermons
will a bent arrow hold a true flight to its targets

as one knows the clarity of water from mead
the sane sees the wheat from the dulling chaffs
as the mind true in spirit and soul holds allegiance
needing no theologians to smite the olid words of banshees