Such is my fate

To be the harbinger of doom

For little more than can be reasoned out

And every reason that might be conceived

To twist the knife twixt guilty ribs

And chaos usher into this most desperate world

A violent birth of war and death

To bring the heroes to their knees

–

The craven man, a spineless pawn

Shall be the weak I prey upon

The noble knight, a drunken knave

To temprous cup becomes the slave

The virtuous maid, a wonton whore

Shan’t be the purest anymore

And oh, most reverend Moorish Black

I’ll draw the cross upon thy back

And break each piece of thy good name

In jealous flood, and prideful flame

Thou shalt be damned in thine own shame

–

For what hast thou become?

Oh, great one! Oh thou Venetian Prince!

When didst the honour thou hadst sought on fiery field

Be rendered up for cloths and cakes and woman’s touch?

I recall thy visage clad in glorious war

To tear the Moors in mercenary blood

Thine own kin to disembowel!

The bitter cup of chaos ever filled

By thy most priest like hands

With crimson blood to brazen brim

And over flowing to the seas

And run their deepest currents red with death

Oh! How far the mighty are fallen!

And thus, great Moor, for these grave sins

My quest for dark vengeance begins

 

~j.d.schofield