Skinned Children in Limerick Land

Without their skins

the children rhyme in
the depths of Limerick Land.
They've removed their flesh

for the rhythmic mesh
of an unpleasant poet's band.
Though it may seem kind of gaudy

These sonnets without a body

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 hide
Hopes in a shallow plot
For the whistling puck
Who, down on his luck
Perceives needs to be fought
A hero he
or a hero she
The children are not to tell
For their only roles
And to keep their souls
They recite poetry to one who fell.

Their angel weeps

and with tremendous leaps
only to be burned there by their joys.
A host of demon
To keep the free men
Lay scattered like their toys.
Their skins are old
Or so they're told
But they'll stretch to fit, if tight.
And the joyous revel
Having defeated a devil
So sated, they walk towards the light.


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j n m ( m n j )
Saint Raven looks at the GM. "Is there any way I can
give him A Look Of Death?"