War Song (Sonnet)

I cried into the petals of a flower

On the bank of Echo’s lake.

The debris of my tower,

sundered by sour drake,


line my burial mound

and, how I long to lay down.

Please select the serpent you crowned

Gurgled the jester’s nervous breakdown


So I grabbed the incarnadine blade

Of the patron saint of drunk vomit,

A True renegade aimed for the stockade

Where children sing of the burning sodomite


And I began the trek to dragon’s lair

Curious about winning a intellectual post-mortem Croix de Guerre

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