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