Gone are the wineskins, froth of youth and forgotten
souls, now ghosts fermenting in death, “For the
Goodtimes.”As a chill wind blows with a prayer for the
dead beneath the ground, sowing seeds for the bones.
With a good still farthing, haunting the monger, “For
the Goodtimes.”

ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ, ᴜɴꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʜᴏɢᴀɴʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ  
ᴘᴜʟꜱɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ, ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ
ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴀɢʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏꜱꜱ. ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ
ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ. ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ
ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ.