oh-my-goat

Thee, sun-saved white poet, Calleth unto me, weeping, A summons to thine starkest, Bleak silver voice. Morning doth shiver on, Wind parting dewdrops, Walketh this path, I do unto thee. Crystalline ring, binding, ensnaring, I hastened on, Porcelain livery atwixt hair and ankle, Higher a coronet of pure gold. Morning doth shiver on, Wind parting dewdrops, Walketh this path, I do unto thee. A poor soul I be, So captured and wounded by Sapphires so clear, And so beautiful, rare. Morning doth shiver on, Wind parting dewdrops, Walketh this path, I do unto thee. The sure hold of firm earth, Torn asunder by anger, The warmth of the fire burning,

lycanthropes with iced manes canter over the rolling, snow-topped hillocks taking Herald, the ram, back to the pack man and beast take him, break him, share him and on the morrow miss him for they pay the man who farms the land but they do not know what they do under cover of darkness, guided by her widened eye they do not know what they do they do not know