Without their skins
the children rhyme inThey've removed their flesh
the depths of Limerick Land.
for the rhythmic meshThough it may seem kind of gaudy These sonnets without a body
of an unpleasant poet's band.
each metaphor takes a vicious bite.And the bogeyman, it slays them Their innocence betrays them
with vicious rhyme at darkest night.
Their treasured hides
As treasures hideFor the whistling puck
Hopes in a shallow plot
Perceives needs to be foughtA hero he
The children are not to tellFor their only roles
They recite poetry to one who fell.
Their angel weeps
and with tremendous leapsA host of demon
only to be burned there by their joys.
Lay scattered like their toys.Their skins are old
But they'll stretch to fit, if tight.So sated, they walk towards the light.
And the joyous revel
Having defeated a devil
j n m ( m n j )
Saint Raven looks at the GM. "Is there any way I can
give him A Look Of Death?"