The war hath bloodied us

Yea, were I but a youngeon
in a dungeon
torn by the impulses of woman
yet twisted by the madness within

Ay, 'tis but a soliloquy of Medusa
the seductress who turns us into stone
somehow

The morning's danger is not
the trumpet that sounds our buttocks
Rather it is the hollow orange
who teases us with satiation
but really mocks our socks... er, um, stockings

'Tis much rumination for one's cerebellum

The seven years war
The Mad and the Anti-Mad
The sunflowers of our garden
Reduced to decomposing daffodils
The River Styx hath not mourned such colossulum

Mourn the survivors! Mourn!
For ye shalt wallow
in the grime of the mad
and have to date pixies